Among others, I’ve been writing this affirmation everyday: I am a patient and exceptional mom. My hope being that if I write it, it will happen. Like Field of Dreams, but for pensive moms. And then Monday happens… and Tuesday… and every. single. morning. happens, and…. Jesus take the wheel. Between whining + complaining, forgetting cleats and an entire soccer practice, and having to say their name 5 times — then YELLLL their names — before getting a response, I see I am neither patient nor exceptional. I am not perfect and I am definitely not the movie glow of motherhood I imagined I’d be; no matter how many times I affirm it.
While talking to my best friend the other night, I said to her, “Why do I need to scream like a crazy person before they hear me,” and her MmmHmm was confirmation that she understood that battle too. I added in frustration, “And then after I yell, I feel like a terrible person, the worst freaking mom ever.” Again she confirmed and added her own life example as tribute.
It got me thinking how many of us live in similar kinds of moments yet think we’re alone; looking across the aisle or lawn or cubicle at that other person who has it all together. That coworker that floats into the office with grace and heels. That mom that never seems flustered (and definitely never yells). That family that looks glossy like a magazine ad; their clothes neat and matching, their hair silky and sans knots. And then I thought Who are these people? Do I actually know any of them? Are any of them real or have I conjured them up as a way to endlessly compare myself to all the ways I could be better?
Epiphany.
None of them are real.
It’s a basic truth. Perfect moms, perfect families, perfect kids, perfect people — don’t exist. Not one perfect human ever has. Not ever. Not in the Ever of Evers.
Margaret in apartment 2B isn’t perfect and neither is your coworker, Pam — no matter how much she lets on to be. So the good news is, you could drop the act.
My kids avoid their after school responsibilities in the name of “I forgot” (because they’ve only been reminded of it since August). They’re imperfect.
I yell at them… because they don’t listen. We’re both imperfect.
Sometimes when they leave the room after sassing me hard, I give them the finger. Like my grandmother used to do when my grandfather (who I adored) was being a grumpy bastard. Definitely imperfect.
Husband? He leaves his dirty t-shirts hanging around the house, his attempts at surprising me are usually foiled by telling me the surprise, and his adversity to admitting he’s wrong (especially when I’m right) is epic. Imperfect.
But here’ the thing — I love him and my kids anyway. And you know what that means?
That through all of my imperfections THEY LOVE ME TOO. During the nights I keep myself awake thinking how I’ve utterly failed my children, they go to sleep thinking I’m the bomb. I know this because one night, after a particularly rough day, when my affirmations were in a smoking, pile of ash, both my hellions said, “I love you mami. You’re the best mom.” I had yelled and lost my temper and probably gave them the finger in the middle of Costco and in their eyes, there was no better mother in the world.
And YOU, in all your imperfect glory, YOU are loved too. There’s no need for the self-inflicted beat down.
Wake up.
Write your affirmations.
Try to do better.
Fail.
Learn.
Try again tomorrow.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
You’re doing great, imperfect human.
P.S. When you screw up and life isn’t all the Instagram filters its cracked up to be
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