Finding Grace in the Corner of the Kitchen

Connecting with my husband lead to a much needed conversation and truth bomb.

Last night we went to our friend’s house for our annual Ukranian Christmas party. Nine times out of ten, my husband and I arrive to a party and we part ways, socializing our way through the crowd to connect with the people we haven’t seen in awhile. We will catch each other’s attention once in awhile, wink or blush or if I’m lucky I’ll get a gentle bum grab as we pass each other by. We’ll see each other later, our looks say.

It was different last night. We ended up in the corner of the kitchen just the two of us and had a much needed conversation. At first, we were just shooting the shit but it quickly turned into something deeper. After all these years, there’s moments where we click like it was the night we met: magnetic, connective energy that just lights us both up. I suddenly found the words I had been looking for since before Christmas to explain how I have been feeling lately. Turns out, he had been feeling something similar. And while both of us were trying to work out our own shit, we didn’t have the means to confide in each other. There were no words, only feelings and processing through it all. But last night, it all came out. The words were within reach, the feelings accessible, the connection strong. We both felt it.

But the slap in the face came with what I call a Clay bomb, akin to a truth bomb. Because Clay is the logic to my emotion, the cynic to my gullible, the reason to my irrationality, he can typically tune me in without judgement. I was sharing with him my fears about parenting. Our oldest is ten now. I see so much of myself in her and while I love who I am now, I didn’t love who I was as a younger person so of course I fear for her teenage years. I don’t want her to be like me making the same mistakes I did. But the more I try to prevent this, the more insecure I am becoming in my parenting. To overcompensate I read all the parenting books and flip flop between whatever method is currently in my Libby account.

A few weeks ago Clay said, “you can’t be insecure in your parenting” to which I defensively said, “I’m not. I’m just blah blah (insert excuses).” I’ve mused on that since and last night I said, “you know what? You were right. I am insecure in my parenting. I’m constantly bombarded by parenting info (self inflicted or not) and it’s left me paralyzed. When Cal hits Chloe, I literally freeze because I don’t know what to do. If I yell, I’m fucking him up. If I spank him, I’m fucking him up. If I give him a time out, I’m fucking him up. If I don't validate his feelings, I’m fucking him up. It feels like I can’t do anything right some days.”

Clay then Clay bombed me: “you’re not perfect, Baby. You’ll never be perfect. You’ll never be the perfect parent and you’ll never raise the perfect kid. You have to stop trying and just trust yourself. At the end of the day, those kids love you so much, Claire included.”

My parenting journey is nothing like someone’s journey with twins or a non-verbal child or an autistic kid. No one’s journey is alike. So we must stop comparing to others.

Cue tears. Perfectionism feels like something that’s in my DNA like my brown eyes or short height. I’ve been striving for it subconsciously my entire life: valedictorian in junior high (which I came second for and spent the entire ceremony in tears over), perfect grades (nothing less than an A will suffice!), perfect girlfriend (I’ll do whatever you need whenever you need with whatever money I don’t have to please you), perfect daughter (don’t make them angry. Just get good grades and don’t rock the boat), perfect friend (remembers someones name the first time we meet and will remember it forever more), perfect employee (I’m the hardest working bitch there is), perfect person (look at me so X,Y,Z- FINALLY, amiright?).

I never realized it was what I was doing until someone else pointed it out. I just thought perfection was the human goal (doesn’t everyone want to be the CEO or captain of the team or liked by every single person they meet?) Now that I’m a mother I see how this programming is affecting my kids lives and my own. While lately I’ve been working hard to live in the “and” (perfectionists love the ‘all or nothing’ mentality) and be okay with that (I can be angry and regulated. I can be healthy and enjoy a bowl of ice cream, etc), I finally see that I’ve been trying to be the perfect parent to a point of detrimental consequences. It took a beautiful conversation in the corner of a kitchen for me to see it.

I don’t need to be the perfect mom. I just need to be me and accept that most days I’m probably doing the wrong thing according to data/science/Karen but I’m doing the best I can with the tools and resources I have. Listening to a book about discipline written by a woman with only one kid is completely useless to me. My circumstances are far different than many parents today. Three kids under age five is rare; my parenting needs to adapt quickly moment to moment to fit each kids’ personality and experience.

Motherhood isn’t a one size fits all. Parenting books aren’t either. It’s like dieting: what works for one doesn’t necessarily work for another.

To have someone I love (and who sees me parent every day) hit me with the permission to give myself the grace to just be me and know that it’s enough for my kids was like taking a drink of cold water after a really hot walk: refreshing, recharging and renewing. I felt something lift: the expectations I place on myself to constantly strive to be a better mother, the weight I carry that I’m not doing enough, the fear I hold close like a comfort blanket that I’m fucking up my kids in some irreversible, horrible way and likely, the anger I've been married to for far too long that seems to only stir when it comes to my family. It all lifted. It’s not gone but it lifted enough that I could feel it and acknowledge it and know that beautiful changes are on their way.

You’re as hard on your kids as you are hard on yourself.

By giving myself the grace to make mistakes and do the wrong thing means I inadvertently give my kids the same grace to make mistakes and do the wrong things. I’m hard on my kids, my oldest especially. I don’t want to be but that’s my default programming rearing its ugly head and before I can stop it, I’ve said something hurtful or dismissive to them. It’s last night’s Clay bomb that has me forgiving myself and knowing that tomorrow is a new day to do better. The more you know better, the more you do better. But if I do fuck up, which I absolutely will, I’ll apologize, take a breath and try again. It’s all we can ask for and it’s all we can do.