Perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect house, perfect Christmas card. We've all seen the attempts. Chances are you have the aforementioned cards displayed in your home right now. Perhaps your Facebook feed is incessantly updated with happy! brilliant! beautiful! talented! family tidbits. Maybe I have been an offender in this assault of domestic perfection.
If so, I apologize. I'd like to come clean. It seems that the harder I work to prove my "have it all-ness," the less I actually have. I do have an awesome family, that's no lie. My kids are smart and articulate and insightful. They're also messy, snarky, and prone to outbursts of manic emotion, details I may leave out when I'm gushing of their greatness. My marriage is blessed and strong, but it's also tried by issues like money, extended family, and more than anything, my disease. My house is decent-looking, but only as a result of my compulsive need to purge excess (eating disorder parallel, anyone?). To summarize, my public got-it-together persona isn't a lie, per se, it's just a meticulously-edited version of the truth.
Nearly all of the mothers I know suffer to some degree by the "have it all" myth. It's not good enough to be okay, we have to be GREAT. It's not good enough to be average, we have to be THE BEST. We try to teach our children that it's their effort that counts, not the product of that effort, but we reject that notion for ourselves.
For me, this myth is becoming dangerous. My drive to appear high-functioning is compromising my willingness to admit struggle, my ability to ask for help. I'm a sick person with a worn-out body, and I don't have the endurance to withstand the constant grandstanding. In my case, the pursuit of "having it all" can cost me everything. How artfully-decorated would my living room be if I wasn't there to arrange the furniture? How cheerful would those Instagram pictures of my kids be if they were motherless? It sounds harsh, but sometimes that's life.
I don't need to be perfect. I CAN'T be perfect; such a goal is futile. You can't be perfect either, and frankly, I wouldn't want you to be. It's your flaws, your mistakes, your inadequacies that make you interesting and dynamic. It's your irreverence that makes me gravitate to you. It's your REALness. A painting can be captivating, but it's the wounded artist that's the real treasure.
I would rather slouch in my poor-postured imperfection next to my wild children than perish trying to be the upright person I'm not. I hope you feel the same.
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