Perfect

Today I do not feel like a super hero.  Today I do not even feel like a relatively competent human being.  I am weary and worn down by the single parenting gig.  I’m not an actual single parent.  I’m married to the father of my son.  The problem is that my husband is on the opposite side of the earth for his job a good 25% of the time.  I’ve been at it for a week and a half now and I’m tired.  I’m tired of being asked a hundred questions a day and being disagreed with every time I answer.  I’m tired of running interference as my son runs, jumps, twirls and weaves down the sidewalk, annoying and nearly injuring unsuspecting pedestrians as he goes.  I’m tired of hearing myself say “no,” “don’t” and “stop.”  I’m tired of having to ask at least ten times for him to do anything I need him to do, whether it’s getting dressed, sitting down for dinner, brushing his teeth or getting in the car.  And speaking of the car, I’m tired of it smelling like a horrible combination of dirt, stale goldfish crackers and something unidentifiable, but sickly sweet.  I’m tired of getting exasperated and rolling my eyes or giving my son a sideways glance, only to see the saddest look on his face as he says, “Sorry, Mommy.”  I hate myself in those moments for not being better, more patient, more understanding, more . . . perfect.

Yes, I have a perfection problem.  Not only do I believe it exists, I also believe that I should be able to personally attain and maintain it in every facet of my life, at all times.  Rationally, I know it isn’t possible and people who care about my sanity remind me of that all the time.  But still, against the odds and despite all evidence to the contrary, I still believe.  I want to believe.  Just like I held onto the manifestations of a belief in Santa Claus long after the actual belief had evaporated from my young mind.  Or how a part of me is holding out hope that unicorns and dragons (friendly ones, of course) exist somewhere, in a beautiful secret garden where no one will ever find them.  The fact that perfection is so elusive makes it that much more perfect. 

I seem to have passed this futile, but tenacious, search for perfection along to my son.  A couple of weeks ago, I observed him playing with a piece of cardboard and foolishly suggested that he decorate it as a shield to protect himself from the bad guys he was heroically battling.  He lit up and may have even said something along the lines of “Great idea, Mommy” as he ran to get his markers and crayons.  I prided myself on my clever parenting move, thinking “Excellent work, Ronda.  That will keep him busy for at least your whole shower!”  I was sorely mistaken.  Instead of happily drawing and decorating his shield, he became immediately frustrated that he couldn’t draw a “perfect” shield shape.  I encouraged him to keep trying.  His dad tried to help by drawing a sample shield, but that backfired in a big way.  “I can’t do it!” Chester wailed.  “I can’t make it as perfect as Daddy’s . . . WAAAAAAAH!”  Instead of enjoying a peaceful and efficient shower, I spent the next half hour trying to convince Chester that his daddy is a professional “drawer” and, as such, has been practicing diligently for many, many years.  This information did not help, but I persisted. 

“Chester, how old is Daddy?” 

“He’s, he’s, he’s . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . 47.” 

“And how old are you, Chester?” 

“I’m . . . (gasp, choke, sniff) . . . fuh, fuh, fuh, four.” 

“That’s right.  So how much longer has Daddy been drawing?”  (Hey, might as well work in a little math lesson.) 

“I, I, I . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . I don’t know . . .” 

“Forty-three years, Chester.   Daddy has been practicing for 43 years longer than you.” 

“(Sniffle, sniffle) . . . Waaaaaaaaaah . . . but it’s not, per, per, per, PERFECT!” 

At this point, we gave up and watched helplessly as he continued crying.  He sobbed desperately, as though he had just been told he would never eat ice cream or play with his friends again.  It is important to note that the outline of Chester’s shield, the one that was so egregiously “not perfect” in his mind was, in fact, nearly perfect.  One teeny-tiny line crossed over the edge of another line, keeping the shield from achieving the much sought after perfection.  Poor kid – I know from experience that he will still be struggling with this in 30 years.  After he finally calmed down, I held him tight, kissed his soft hair and gently said, “Buddy, there’s no such thing as perfect.”  (At least that’s what they tell me.)  I believe it was after this shield drawing debacle that my husband pronounced it will be my responsibility to teach Chester that perfection does not exist.  I think I heard him mumbling something like, “It will be good for you too.”       

If an effort to prepare for my daunting assignment, I decided to determine the exact, dictionary definition of “perfect.”  My battered Webster “handy college dictionary” defines perfect as follows:  1, complete in every detail.  2, without defect; flawless.  3, of the highest type.  4, exact, precise.  5, thoroughly learned or skilled. 

With that definition in mind, I acquiesce; chasing perfection is indeed a recipe for frustration and disappointment in the most ideal of circumstances.  It’s even worse when things get stretched.  Take for example the solo parenting.  I’m trying to single-handedly be a perfect parent, do a perfect job at work, keep the house in perfect order and keep myself in perfect shape.  This does not end well.  Perfection is not achieved.  I end up feeling like I’m doing everything poorly.  My friend and former colleague Kelly Shuttleworth, a fantastic artist agent, mother of three and all around gracious and likeable person once told me something I’ll never forget.  I was chatting with her at a conference shortly after having had my son.  We were talking about life and work and parenting and I, feeling overwhelmed, said, “How in the world do you do it with three kids, Kelly?” and she said, “Well, I’ll tell you my secret.”  I caught my breath, my heart beat a little faster.  I couldn’t believe somebody was finally going to tell me “the secret!”  This was what I’d been waiting for.  Wide-eyed, I leaned in a bit and listened intently as she said, matter-of-factly, “I don’t do anything well.”  Now, I don’t think this was entirely true in her case, because I had first-hand knowledge of Kelly doing her job really well and, just judging from the kind of person she is, I’m guessing she was doing much better than she thought in the other areas too, but I got her point.  “The secret” made a lot of sense.  So much sense that I was pretty sure I didn’t like it.

OK, OK, I get it, there’s no such thing as perfect.  Every day provides me with plenty of proof.  As if my parenting challenges weren’t enough, I feel like my house is falling apart.  I walk through the door and feel like George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life” in the scene where he comes home to his perpetually ramshackle house and tries to rest his hand on the decorative banister knob on top of the stairs, only to have it fall off for what is probably the thousandth time.  I intensely identify with his urge to throw the damn thing across the room.  I mean, come ON, with everything that poor guy is dealing with, does the knob have to keep falling off?!  And with all the things I’ve got going on, with all the perfection I’m trying to achieve here, does the toilet have to keep leaking no matter what I do?  Do the 25-year-old hardwood floors have to keep giving me slivers every time I dare to walk across them barefoot?  Do my son’s crayons and colored pencils have to keep rolling across the sloped floor and slipping into the crack between the floor and the baseboard?  Apparently the answer is, “Yes.  Yes, they do.”  Perfect this is not.

I’m working on getting more comfortable with this idea of doing a lot of things pretty well; or at least well enough to get by.  I know I need to, for my son’s sake and for my own sanity.  God knows I don’t want to end up like Natalie Portman’s Nina in Black Swan, smiling radiantly, even as she is bleeding to death, uttering her final, satisfied words, “I was perfect . . .”   

I’m trying.  I really am, but it’s hard for me.  (If you read my last blog post, you know that I like to pretend I’m a superhero.)  So I’ve been thinking, perhaps I just need to tweak my expectations ever so slightly.  Maybe I can still believe in perfect . . . in small doses.  Maybe there can be bits of perfection amid imperfection.  Maybe I can have perfection, just not perfection in every area, at all times. 

Take these gorgeous rings by celebrity jewelry designer Cathy Waterman, for example.  I don’t mean she designs jewelry for celebrities, although she certainly does – many Cathy Waterman pieces have been trotted down the red carpet over the years.  I mean she IS a celebrity in the jewelry world.  I’ve been admiring her jewelry for at least a decade.  Her work is very feminine and romantic – featuring intricate geometric designs and natural elements such as leaves, flowers and branches.  These rings seem like a bit of a departure, a little more bold and tough, but with the trademark Cathy Waterman loveliness.  One is 22-carat gold, with platinum and pavé diamond detail.  The other is platinum and pavé with a diamond center stone.  Just the thought of how wonderful they would look stacked together makes me giddy (and giddiness is something I’ve been a little short on over the past week and a half).  I love the pyramid shapes and how, depending on the angle of the light, they cast different shadows – sometimes you see triangles, sometimes squares.   

These rings are at once delicate and strong; they are exquisite, but not too precious; they are . . . perfect.  See, perfection does exist, if only in tiny glimmers.  I’ll take what I can get.