I’ve never been much of a perfectionist.
I mean, we’ve all got our areas of OCD-ness. I’m a psycho about using coasters on the coffee table and end tables in my house. I can’t LOL, BRB or OMG. All of my texts have to have proper capitalization and punctuation. But for the most part, I’m Type B.
No one would ever walk into my house and worry that I struggle with perfectionism. And it only takes about 30 seconds of a conversation with someone new for me to out myself as a walking (but redeemed!) disaster.
But perfectionism is a sly little monster that can sneak up on me at the weirdest times and catch me completely off guard.
The week of Halloween, Caroline asked me if we could carve a pumpkin. A reasonable request. Sydney was heading to the Taylor Swift concert with her mom. Beau and Brad would be at the Florida-Georgia game. So Halloween was gonna be our thing.
Well, being the Type B person that I am, I waited until the day before Halloween to think about getting a pumpkin. I sent Brad and Caroline to find one and after going to three different places, they came back with the only one left anywhere.
It wasn’t a bad-looking little pumpkin. It was actually the perfect size: just between softball and volleyball. It was a little banged up on one side and the stem was gone. But for being the last one, it was just right.
So that Friday night, Caroline and I went outside and spread out some garbage bags. I assumed I would be doing the majority of the work and Caroline would assist, but she had the reverse in mind. SHE wanted to do it and wanted me to help as needed.
She’s a pretty capable kid and handles her business like a champ. But she’s still only eight. I’ve carved a number of pumpkins and while none of them have been great works of art or Pinterest worthy, they’ve been cute. And I was 100% certain that I could do it again.
But this was HER pumpkin. Something I would remind myself about fifty times over the next fifteen minutes.
We got all set up outside: garbage bags, pen, knife, large spoon, paper towels. She drew the eyes and nose triangles and asked for some help with the toothy grin she wanted. I happily obliged. We were ready to cut.
She reached for the pumpkin and the knife and I said, “You know what? Why don’t you let me cut the hole in the top?” She scowled at me and I continued quickly, “Well, it’s just a small pumpkin and we’ve got to be careful to cut it big enough to get in there, but not too big so it crowds the face….you know?”
She rolled her eyes and relented. “Fine.”
Yes, it will be, I thought to myself smugly. Just fine.
I cut the hole in the top and let her get to work scraping out the guts. I was not going to battle her for that part. After a few minutes, she said, “Okay, let’s start the face.”
I looked inside the pumpkin and there were still plenty of strings hanging off the sides that I knew would not look good from the outside. I took the pumpkin and the spoon and said, “Let me just…clean this up a little more for ya…”
Caroline looked annoyed, but didn’t say anything.
“There. Look. See, I got out all that junk so now it’s all smooth inside.”
“Great,” she replied, less than enthusiastically. “Okay, let’s start cutting.”
I eyed our work in progress. “Okay, see, we’re gonna have to move the eyes down a little more, like this,” and I expertly cut out the first eye.
“Mom! I wanted to do it!”
“I know, but look. See how we needed to move it down a little from where you drew it?” She looked dejected and I felt guilty. “I’m sorry, babe. Here. You do it.”
I held the pumpkin still has she happily began to cut. I smiled, encouraged and offered minimal instruction while the inner battle raged. I could hear Rachel Macy Stafford (Hands-Free Mama) arguing with my unwelcome perfectionism, which was now approaching a Category 4 hurricane.
RMS: It IS her pumpkin you know. Let her do it.
Me: But she’s gonna mess it up!
RMS: Who cares? This isn’t about the pumpkin. It’s about your daughter, spending time with her, creating a memory, letting her try something, maybe letting her fail, and being there when she needs you.
Me: But if I did it, it would be perfect.
RMS: And what would that teach her? That what she is capable of isn’t good enough. That she shouldn’t try anything unless she knows it would turn out perfectly. Would your perfect pumpkin be worth your daughter’s disappointment?
Me: She wouldn’t be disappointed because it would end up so cute!
RMS: But it wouldn’t be hers. If you get in the habit of taking over every time she wants to do something with you, eventually she’s going to stop asking.
Me: (Frustrated sigh.)
RMS: Stop looking at the pumpkin’s face. Look at HER face.
I did. She was biting her lower lip in concentration, brow furrowed like mine does all too often. She was empowered, nervous, happy.
RMS: Whose smile do you care more about? The pumpkin’s? Or your daughter’s?
Ouch.
I folded. My imaginary Rachel was right. It wasn’t about the pumpkin. It was about the child. Get a grip, Mom.
She got through the second eye and the nose and proudly showed me her work.
“That’s great, babe. Good job.”
She smiled, then got serious. “Okay, time for the mouth.”
My inner perfectionist roared back to life. This was much more complicated than the triangle eyes and nose. The curves, the teeth. One wrong slice and we lose a tooth, maybe more.
Who cares? Who? Cares? I scolded myself. This is her pumpkin. Offer some suggestions, hold it still for her, then LEAVE IT.
So I held it and gently coached. I realized this is where having a smaller pumpkin makes things trickier because each cut has to be more precise. She placed the knife over one of the drawn lines of the pumpkin’s grin, gripped the handle with both hands and pushed down hard.
I’ve realized that as soon as your first child is born, you are immediately equipped with superpowers you’ve never had before. You are suddenly able to diagnose and treat most common medical problems (nursing degree without the prescription pad, unfortunately). You can detect even the slightest hint of BS in most situations. You grow the infamous eyes in the back of your head. You can read minds and see into the future.
And I saw what was about to happen. But I had already said and done too much. Garnering every bit of self-control I could muster, I let it play out. Slice, went the knife and off came one of the teeth.
“Oh no!” Caroline exclaimed in distress. She picked up the broken piece and looked at me, not knowing what kind of reaction she would get. Shame. I told you so. Or…
“Aw, man,” I lamented gently. “You know what? It’s okay, kiddo. I may be able to fix it.”
Relief washed over her face. And I knew it was more relief about my reaction than the fact I could fix it. “How?”
I smiled mischievously and leaned in, like I was telling her some well-kept secret. “Well, what you don’t know is I happen to be a world-renowned pumpkin surgeon.”
She giggled. “But how can you fix it?”
I shrugged. “Eh, I’ve got a couple ideas we could try. And you know what? If they don’t work, he’ll just have a big toothless smile. You know, like the Peanuts kids. Let’s keep going.”
She looked encouraged and we continued. There was another mis-slice, another lost tooth and another pep talk. When she had done all she could do, she handed the patient to me. “So you think you can fix it?”
“I can try,” I told her. “Let’s get everything inside. The bugs are killin’ me out here.”
We regrouped on the kitchen floor and I talked through a couple of options. Caroline watched closely and quickly fetched every tool I requested.
A couple of broken toothpicks, some inner cuss words and elbow grease and the teeth were back in place. It didn’t look great. More like Frankenstein than Charlie Brown. But Caroline was so proud of it.
She took a picture of it and sent it to her dad. She shoved it in Brad’s face as soon as he walked in the door. She gazed at it and just loved the ugly little thing.
Then she gave me a hug and said, “Thanks for doing the surgery, Mom.”
I then realized it had been God’s voice in that argument, disguised as Rachel Macy Stafford. (Don’t you love how He uses other people’s voices to speak His truth on occasion?) And He was right.
THAT toothy grin was all that mattered.
Doing it together is more important than doing it right.
Doing something WITH my kid(s) is far better than doing something FOR my kid(s).
Having the confidence to try and the ability to handle failure without the world ending is a life skill that more and more kids are missing in the growing up process. And it’s because of perfectionist parents like me.
I must be willing to let them try, let them fall, and be ready with a bandaid and an encouraging smile when they get back up. It’s not my job to go ahead of my kids and eliminate as many obstacles as possible. It’s my job to teach well, impart confidence and wisdom and turn them loose, cheering all the way.
I have to learn to get a grip while I’m letting go.
As I was tucking Caroline in that night, I got right down in her face and locked eyes with her. “Have I told you today how much I love you, what a cool kid you are and how proud I am of you?”
She rolled her eyes and pulled the covers over her head. “Yes, Mom!” came the annoyed, muffled voice. “You tell me that all the time! It’s annoying!” I chuckled.
Perfect.
