A Month of Mays: May We Accept Our Imperfections
Being a mom has been the most challenging, yet the most rewarding role I have ever taken on. Traditionally, the society sees the mother as the one raising her children. But as a mom, I’ve learned that it’s the total opposite. The children come into this world to raise their mothers. They show us that we are capable of so much more than we ever allowed ourselves to believe. They show us that we’re worthy of love, no matter how inadequate we feel. By their existence alone, they motivate us to become better people. To commemorate mother’s day, I’d like to reflect on one of the biggest lessons my children have taught me: To accept all the imperfections of life!
Like a good majority of the people from my culture, I was a perfectionist through and through. I aimed for straight A’s all through my childhood. I was always trying to one up my over-achieving older brother. When I started working, I kept going from one task to another that my coworkers told me “Slow down! You’re making us feel bad.” But nothing brought out my perfectionism more than motherhood.
Motherhood and Perfectionism
When I became a mother for the first time, I wanted to be the best mom I could be. I read books to prepare for the birth and the newborn years. The birth announcement for my oldest was designed and drawn by me. I learned lullabies to sing and read books to him in both Japanese and English. I took photos all day to capture every little milestones.
…Oh, the milestones. Back then, I had no idea that’s what I was doing, but looking back, I can see I was using the milestones as report cards on how I was doing on motherhood. If he hit the milestones early, I took it as a sign that I was doing things right. If he didn’t, then I thought I had failed him somehow. Maybe I didn’t give him enough tummy time. His motor skills aren’t that great because I let him wear gloves to prevent the scratching. I should’ve talked to him more. Maybe I should’ve taught him more sign language. The list went on and on. Every comment about him from family, doctors, and strangers felt like grades and became fodder for more self-criticism.
As he grew older, those criticisms spilled over to him, both verbally and non-verbally, in sharp looks and big sighs. In the end, I ended up raising another perfectionist. He’s my over-achiever that’s always pushing to do his best. I’m already proud of him, but he’s still trying to please me even more. So I feel conflicted when I see him criticizing his little brother a bit too harshly. I see myself in him. I hear the words I used to say. The sharp looks I used to give him. Do I say, I’m sorry that’s what I used to do to you, but I don’t feel like it’s necessary anymore? Or would those words feel like yet another criticism to him, yet another part of him that’s unacceptable? Is there a way to protect the feeling of one child without alienating the other?
Is There Really Such a Thing as Perfections or Imperfections?
And there lies the problem. There just isn’t a perfect solution to parenting. Every kid is different. They have different personalities and learning styles. They all require different approaches. When my daughter was little, she used to hit almost every milestone slightly behind what’s expected. I finally had to admit to myself that I was using my children’s achievements for my own ego boost. She showed me how to look at everything from a different perspective. She showed me that imperfections are perfections. That imperfect is the way we are meant to be. That perfection doesn’t actually exist – it’s just an illusion. And the paradox of paradoxes, when you accept that, everything suddenly becomes perfect.
It’s not something that can be understood in one quick go. Even now, if I’m not vigilant about it, I can still fall back into pursuing the illusion of perfection. I started writing this post at 10:30 last night because I really hated the idea of missing a day when I’m calling this A “Month” of Mays. I thought maybe I could churn this out before the date changed. But thankfully, I recognized how ridiculous it was for me to be writing about accepting my imperfections when I couldn’t even give myself one missed day, so I stopped.