At the end of 2012, I made thirteen resolutions. THIRTEEN. I go big or go home. I figured, the law of averages, right? If you do something enough times, it will work out at least once. Some were shallow and easy (learn how to apply eyeliner) and some were lofty (be a size eight), and even others seemed insurmountable at the time (stop yelling at my kids). In some way, they all revolved around self-improvement. Be a better (fill in the blank). Be more romantic with my husband (be a better wife). Catch up on backlogged paperwork (be a better employee). Write 2-3K a week (be a better writer). Give more money to charity (Be a better human). The overall message from 2012 Me to 2013 Me: You are not good enough.
I didn’t even realize it until almost November, when I went back
and reviewed the list. I laughed a little at myself, but at the same time, deep
down, I felt like a failure. I had accomplished maybe three of
the items on the list (which upped to four when I quickly found an eyeliner
tutorial on Youtube).
I tried explaining all this to my husband, who has always insisted
that I am ridiculously hard on myself. I have always countered with:
self-improvement can never be bad. We can all afford to be better people. To
me, it’s always been arrogance to assume you’re perfectly fine the way you are
– that you couldn't improve your parenting, or maybe be a better friend to
someone, maybe say you’re sorry to someone you should have apologized to years
ago? I dismissed him as too self-satisfied. I was clearly the enlightened one.
A few weeks ago, I went to my daughter’s kindergarten classroom
for National Education Week. I watched her sit, straight-backed, at the Star
table listening to instructions, and then cut out turkey feathers in perfect
shapes. I watched her collect all her scraps and throw them away and put away
her scissors and pencil in her pencil case and then refold her “quiet hands”
and wait patiently for the next instruction. I watched her scan the classroom
to make sure she was the first one done. I watched her run a small index finger
along the edge of the turkey feather to make sure it was a flawless, clean cut.
I watched her get frustrated because the glue on her page was slightly smeared.
I watched her write and erase the “L” in her first name probably fifteen times,
until I thought the paper would rip. Later that night, I said to my husband,
“What kind of five year old demands that level of perfection? Where would she
get that from?” He quipped back, “Maybe there’s a thirteen New Year’s
resolutions gene.”
I was frustrated. I've never pushed her – her drawings were always
hung proudly on the refrigerator, she dresses herself in whatever she wants,
and even does her own hair. I don’t fix her crooked ponytails. I don’t tell her
that pink doesn't always match pink. I stress that “doing your best” is all I
ever ask. I’m conscious of letting her find her own way. How could I have done
that to her? I clearly needed to do something different, something better. But
what? I started Googling things, how to tame a perfectionist child, how
to calm an anxious kindergartner. I watched her do her homework
and erase letter after letter, and I said to my husband, “What did I do wrong?
What can I do differently?” And his answer was simple. “You are too hard on
yourself.”
With that simple phrase, one he’d said a hundred times in our
marriage, I realized he was right. For the first time, I understood what he
meant. I wasn't hard on my daughter. I was hard on me. I was
loving and forgiving and encouraging to my daughter. To myself, I was critical,
unkind, harsh. And it was possible, maybe even likely, that whatever
perfectionist trait my daughter had inherited had been nurtured in herself by
watching me.
I thought back to every Pinterest project we’d ever tackled, every
picture we’d ever colored together, every date night she’d watched me get
dressed, trying on outfit after outfit, probably sighing. I wasn't a
perfectionist, necessarily. In fact, in the moment I can be frequently very
lazy. Only later do I fret, worry, feel guilt, think about what I should have
said, or should have done, over-apologize, or stress about how I come off to
others. She’d spent her whole life watching me critique myself, and come up
short in my own eyes. She wasn't trying to make her “L’s” perfect for me—she
knew my love was unconditional. But I had inadvertently taught her that
self-love was something to be worked for, to be earned.
This year, I’m making one resolution. It’s one word, and it’s
mildly cheesy. Accept. Accept that I will yell. Try again tomorrow.
Accept my size 14. Eat healthy choices. Accept my work day ends at 4. Accept
that I might disappoint someone someday. Whether it be my husband or my best
friend, my boss, my mother or my sister. Accept that giving what I give to charity is
better than nothing and maybe just give a little bit more.
We are teaching our children how to be people. Not just with
House Rules charts and Rewards Jars, but with our actions. Not just how we
treat our kids, but how we treat others, how we treat ourselves. Some of the
greatest lessons aren't sound bites (Hands
are not for hitting! Kind words, kind tone!), but choices we make every
day, reflected by how we view the world. Maybe if we want our kids to be happy,
we should be happy. Maybe if we want our kids to be kind, we should be kind.
Maybe if we want our kids to love themselves, it’s not enough that
we simply love them. We must also love ourselves.
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| I never said I'd quit drinking |
