To Be Perfect

To Be Perfect

Bryce waved a wrinkled piece of paper clutched in his dirty, toddler hand. In the center of the paper was a large circle with two straight lines extending from the bottom. Inside the circle were two large dots.

“This is a really neat picture, sweetheart. Tell me about it.” I picked him up and he settled into my lap.

“This is you, Mom,” he said, his eyes shone with pride. Together, we identified the parts of the picture I recognized - the head, legs and eyes.

“But where are my arms?” I teased, giving him a tight squeeze.

“Right here.” He pointed to either side of the circle. Although I couldn’t see them, he knew exactly where they were.

“And, where is my hair?” I was curious now about the different way we saw the picture. He pointed to the top of the circle, as if my short, blond hair was obviously visible. To anyone else, this simple drawing would be lacking key elements—incomplete and unfinished. To my son, his picture was perfect. He saw more than just lines—he saw me.

Time has passed since that discussion and his portrait has found a permanent place on the fridge. Nearly every day, I pause for a few minutes and look at my own personalized picture of perfection.

As elusive as perfection is, the world has many outlets that would have me believe they know how to find or create the perfect mom. Pinterest tells me I can find her in the elaborate planning of themed parties. Facebook tells me I can find her by showing off my awesome family dance party or over-the-top fun trip to an exotic location. Instagram and Twitter lead me to believe she’s found in witty words and sarcastic observations.

There are plenty of days when I believe them and add their pictures to the perfect mom image I’ve created all on my own. The one I’ve pieced together from social media, television, magazines, church and seminary lessons and lusting after the perceived perfection of others. Running at full speed, I try to juggle responsibilities, switching hats like a skilled magician and do my best to rise to the expectations.

A few years ago, my teenage daughter snapped a picture of me in the middle of the chase. The scene unfolds as I stand in the kitchen with my back to the camera. Vigorously stirring something on the stove, I am making dinner, healthy and colorful. The kind of dinner my children will eat one bite of and then sneak toast later on when I’m not looking. The phone is strategically balanced between my ear and shoulder as I talk with one of my visiting teaching sisters arranging for appointments for later in the week. So far so good. Perfection in the making.

The cord of the phone is stretched behind me across a pile of dirty dishes ready to be hand washed with homemade detergent. My effort to be earth friendly and environmentally aware. Behind the dishes, up against the wall are zucchini from our home grown garden, ready to be made into bread for the widow down the street. Under the dishes is a notebook filled with ideas for a new chore system that I will unveil at Family Home Evening that night.

The first time I saw that picture I was sitting at the computer, keeping up our family history by blogging. Still chasing the image. I leaned back in my chair and took a big breath. So much of my life was captured in one clear picture. Over and around the stove and the phone, under and behind dishes, I was working so hard to ‘be ye therefore perfect.’ What was missing in the picture were my children.

In my efforts to meet the expectation of all the picture-perfect mothering obligations, I couldn’t remember if I took the time to actually connect with my children. The most important and defining part of mothering. I volunteered in the school, cleaned a bathroom and mended a blouse. I helped the children finish homework, do chores and get to practice but I can’t remember if I stopped chasing perfection long enough to look my children in the eyes and say “I love you.”

Considering all the things that were left out of my son’s portrait of me, the eyes were not missing. In fact, they were front and center—the window to the soul. I love looking into my son’s eyes when he talks. His expressions are contagious as he opens his eyes wide with excitement or squints and his whole face puckers with a question. They sparkle with a joke and tear up when he is sad. I get more than words when I look my child in his eyes as we talk. It is when we are eye to eye, that we truly connect. When I take the time to look into the eyes of my children and really see them, the exhausting activity level of my grade-schooler becomes enthusiasm and the tireless mess-making of my toddler becomes curiosity.  Those moments of connection and love are where I find perfection.

My son’s perfect portrait of me, drawn with simple lines, will eventually be tucked away in a special place to be treasured for years to come. As he grows and matures, he will draw other pictures and they will be different than the first. Surely in later pictures, missing parts will be added as he includes arms, hair and a smile among other attributes.  It is mercifully reassuring to know that my image of perfection can grow and mature as well, line upon line, precept upon precept.

It is tempting to make my image of perfection complicated, with expectations above and beyond my reach. What I have learned through my son’s artwork is that perfection can really be quite simple because it begins with where I already am, with the people I love most, and grows with me.

Being Awesome on a Quarter Tank of Gas

It’s hard to be awesome all the time. I should know. I’m a mom. And I live in the middle of a chaotic kind of awesome every day. First, let’s clarify. I’m not talking about being a perfect mom. Perfection is laced with stress, guilt and expectation. Being awesome is different and more appealing because it can be defined so many different ways. There is the sarcastic kind of awesome, as in, watching a full gallon of chocolate milk slip from your toddlers hands and cover the freshly mopped floor. That’s just awesome. The sweet relief kind of awesome when you tuck your kids in to bed and enjoy a pint of your favorite ice cream all by yourself. And especially those moments when you catch your breath because you just realized how amazing your children are and how lucky you are to be their mother. 

The thing is, motherhood can be exhausting. The expectations are overwhelming to do everything and be everything to everyone all at the same time. It’s challenging to be awesome when you’re running on empty. Or almost empty, as was the case when I took my five kids on a summer outing to the mountains. It had been a long week for everyone and by the time Friday rolled around, everyone was ready for a break. The beautiful fall colors and cool mountain air were the perfect escape.

Making our way to American Fork canyon was a breeze. Majestic trees lined the road like sentries as it wove through the forest like a ribbon playing peek-a-boo with the river.

Twenty minutes into the drive, my son asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yep. We follow this road all the way to the Springs,” I said, hugging a narrow turn like a pro. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all the time!” Parker rolled his eyes at the familiar phrase I repeated over and over, hoping to brainwash my children. I didn’t look behind me but I’m sure Parker wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. I smiled and glanced at my dashboard just as the red light near the fuel gauge lit up. Adrenaline shot through my veins like a tsunami.

I was in the middle of the mountains on a narrow road, riding the edge of a cliff like a dare-devil and I was about to run out of gas. Oh my sweet children. Forgive me now. Reluctantly, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal to climb another hill. What kind of mother does this? A pretty much awesome one, said my snarkiest inner voice.

Running on what I knew was fumes, we finally pulled into the parking lot at the Springs. I pulled the key out of the ignition and released a deep breath. This is it. We find help here or we don’t. I should have brought more granola bars.

I followed my children on the dirt path to a pavilion occupied by an elderly couple and a young, female park ranger. Angels sang faintly in the background as an aura of light descended around the ranger’s head. This is awesome! I thought. Surely she will know what to do.

I introduced my family and answered a few questions. Where are you from? Have you been here before? Are these children all yours? With the pleasantries behind us, I began to explain my predicament with a complete lack of volume control. I lectured myself silently even as I rattled on. Dial it down! Press the mute!  

Pity and concern oozed from the ranger’s face. “Gosh. What’re you going to do?” The angels sputtered and choked on the final chorus. “I’ll be leaving in an hour,” she offered. “I could follow you out if you want to wait that long.”  

 A long hour later, my children huddled around me, staring at each other in ominous silence as we contemplated our dire situation.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” Camille said.

“I already did,” said Parker, “twice.”

 “We’re going to be just fine,” I said and forced the most comforting mommy smile I could pull out of the pit in my stomach.

When the ranger pulled out of the parking lot, we were in close pursuit. Each hill we climbed toward the summit seemed to suck gas like a toddler with a popsicle. I pleaded to heaven for forgiveness, making deals like a race track bookie. If I get out of this canyon, I will always check my gas tank before a trip. I will never yell at my innocent, patient, sweet little angels again. I will stop sneaking the kids’ candy from their hiding spots in their bedrooms. I promise, whatever it takes.

Not daring to touch the gas and barely touching the brakes we finally birthed out of the mouth of the canyon like a bat out of hell. At this point, the van was practically floating on faith. From the backseat Bryce chanted, “I love Jesus, I love Jesus.”

The children erupted in cheers as we pulled in to the gas station. The ranger, who parked at the pump in front of us, walked back, smiling at the raucous celebratory noise.

“I don’t know how but you made it,” she said.

“I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all the time. Moms are cool like that,” I bragged.

Becoming Un-Done

Ten minutes is not a nap.

One minute was enough time to track mud through the kitchen yesterday. Five minutes was long enough to argue with a child before she stormed out of the room last night. Eight minutes was the time it took to flood a bathroom this morning. Ten minutes is long enough to lose it and reconsider why you became a mom.

But it is definitely not a nap.

“Parker!” The blood pulsing in my eardrums competed with the cries of the baby. “Stop it right there,” I grumbled through clenched teeth and grabbed him by the arm as he made a last ditch effort to run past me. It had taken twenty-two minutes exactly to put that over-tired baby to sleep. I watched the clock tick with every ache in my back. With a controlled breath out, I slowly relaxed my grip on Parker’s arm.It’s been a long day and it’s not even lunch so pull—it—together, I told myself.

“What were you doing in the baby’s room?” I asked, in stiff, measured syllables. I squinted my eyes, trying to drown out the crying baby and the exhaustion that had been building all week.

“I need socks for soccer practice,” he said, his mouth left open, like, duh.

“Why on earth would your socks be in the baby’s room?”

“I don’t know. I was just looking everywhere.”

“Well, the baby’s room is off limits.” I let go of his arm already heading toward the baby. Parker followed, still asking where his socks were, trying to squeeze in and walk side-by-side in the narrow hall.

“Look in your laundry.” He turned and ran back down the hallway. “Your laundry in your room, not the stacks on the couch,” I called after him.

I walked reluctantly into the baby’s room, feet moving slowly like the Little Engine That Couldn’t. Looking over the rim of the crib, I stared at my crying baby girl, lying on her pink crocheted blanket, her pacifier clutched in her frantic fist. I don’t know what else to give you, I thought. You’ve been nursed, burped, changed and rocked to sleep and now I have nothing. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I saw my tears mix with hers on her flushed cheeks.

“Mom?” a small voice called from behind. “Mom, I hungee.” I felt small hands wrap around my leg.

How long had I been crying? Where are the children? What are we going to eat? My drained mind filled with questions as I picked up my baby. I didn’t know what to tell my 3-year-old daughter, Camille. I hadn’t been to the store for a week and the cupboards and fridge were bare. “Apples,” I mumbled, picking up the still crying baby.

Heading for the kitchen and already wanting to call it quits, the state of the family room put me over the edge. The furniture was covered by clean clothing that had, minutes before, been folded in a basket on the couch. I followed a trail of socks through the family room, into the kitchen, like a prisoner on a death march. Each step released any resolve or strength I had held in reserve. I was done, finished. It was over. I was as empty as the overturned laundry basket.

Camille held out an apple with a bite taken out of it. “Yucky,” she said, through pinched, disgruntled lips. Without breaking the rhythm of my march, I opened the fridge to get her a new, un-desecrated apple. Five apples in the produce drawer and every one of them had already been sampled and placed back into the fridge.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t care. I was already done. I stared at Camille, my eyes wide and vacant as she looked back at me, expectantly.

The doorbell rang. Wiping a fresh pool of tears from under my eyes, I answered the door to find my visiting teacher, Joyce.

“Hi Karin,” she said, hesitating before handing me a plate of cookies. “If I don’t give these away, I’ll eat them all myself.”

I rearranged the loosely swaddled baby in my arms to take the plate but Camille beat me to it, rushing back into the kitchen, already pulling the plastic wrap off the plate. My eyes lingered down the hall after her, relieved that she now had something to eat.

“Are you OK?” Joyce asked, pulling back my attention.

“Yes,” I smiled, nervously, unsettled by the confused looked on her face. “Yes, of course. We were just getting hungry around here so thank you so much for the cookies.” I tried to push the image of the family room buried in laundry out of my mind, wondering how long and loud the baby would cry while I cleaned it up.

“Are you sure?” she asked again, smiling wider.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I smiled, placing my hand on the door, indicating it was time for me to get back to my family. Joyce took the cue. “Let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” I recited along with her in my mind.

I closed the door and let the emotion wave over me again. Five minutes was too long to put on a show today. My eyes drifted to my reflection in a decorative mirror in the entryway and I stared, paralyzed. Squinting, I leaned in to get a good look at the face in the reflection. Red eyes stared back, blank and baffled. Mascara ran down my blotchy cheeks.

Everything I tried to hide was running down my cheeks, calling my bluff in dark, wet streaks.

This is ridiculous, I thought, embarrassed at being caught in my own deception. “I’m done being done,” I told my reflection. “I can’t do this alone.” Who am I trying to fool anyway? And why? Empowered with a strength born of humiliation, I called after my visiting teacher.

“Joyce,” I called. “I’ve got a laundry basket I need to fill and I could use some help. Do you have a minute?”

Big Deal

Today I needed to get a lot accomplished. The house had been neglected all weekend and it really needed some attention. I was determined to be focused and put all distractions in their place.

My 2-year-old was my little helper with chores the other day. It wasn't necessarily intentional. He woke up early from his nap. He followed me around the house like Pig-Pen, from the peanuts cartoon, in a cloud of dust.

As I was vacuuming one room, Bryce came in, sat on a chair and proceeded to shred a few corn chips with a butter knife.
I moved on to mopping the kitchen and he put his bare, summer-dirty foot in the water. He didn't just step on the freshly mopped, still wet floor. He stuck his bare, summer-dirty foot in the bucket of soapy water, splashed a bit and then walked around the kitchen.

At this point, I had a decision to make and I decided to love it. All things in perspective....BIG DEAL! So I make one more run with the vacuum or one more swipe with the mop. This little boy is full of discovery and exploration. Every part of his life right now is a grand adventure. I might as well enjoy the JOY of life with him.

Recently, my 9-year-old son joined me on my run. He rode his bike and I tried to keep up. Most of the run, he would pedal ahead and then skid to a stop. He would point out how long or dark or curved his skid marks were. He bragged about being able to turn while he skidded or how long the mark was when he was going downhill. He was thrilled with the whole process. Halfway through I had the mature, parental urge to explain to him that doing that much skidding was probably wearing down his tires and he'd probably get a flat sooner rather than later and then we'd have to buy new tires and new tires cost money. As soon as the urge came and those thoughts raced through my mind, they were followed with a brief memory of my own carefree childhood. Feelings I haven't known for ages. For a few brief minutes, I remembered what it was like to not have to worry about things like money and consequences and practicalities. So I held my tongue.

And I decided to love it. All things in perspective...BIG DEAL! So he wears out his bike tires and has to learn how to change a tire with his Dad as his teacher. This energetic boy of mine is so full of discovery and exploration. I might as well enjoy the JOY of life with him.

My children are growing up with a mom who lets them explore and to me,that is a big deal!