The ‘perfect’ parent.
Image by @Mamiafros
When it comes to my parents, I really hit the jackpot.
I have memories from childhood that can bring me to nostalgic (happy) tears. Memories of summer afternoons by the pool in my cozzies, the smell of Mum’s Lancôme moisturiser, tripes with Dad to David Jones. We had beach days filled with sandcastles, boogie boarding and jelly sandals. Mum braiding my hair and patiently redoing it again and again when the plait wasn’t quite right according to a five-year old’s high standards – I must have been a budding perfectionist even back then.
And what don’t I remember? My sleep routines, my daily schedules, when and how I reached my milestones. I don’t remember the brand of clothes I wore or the developmentally appropriate toys I played with.
According to Mum, I didn’t have a perfect sleep schedule, she doesn’t even recall me having any kind of schedule. I would happily feed to sleep and when starting solids, I would just toss my lovingly prepared food over the highchair, as most kids do. More than likely, actually, most definitely, I ate my fair share of added sugar – and yet here I am, a 32-year-old mother with some of my things together – a varied diet, an appreciator of a healthful lifestyle and, pre-baby, a good sleeper.
I remember and know from my early years that the love and secure attachment I felt towards my parents was all that I needed and that feeling has followed me through to adulthood.
Why is it that the very things that don’t feature in my childhood memories are the very things that I now ruminate on? Why now that I am a mother, I hold myself to such an impossibly high standard?
The phenomenal amount of brain space that has been dedicated to my daughter’s nap schedules is ridiculous, yet I grew up just fine without one. But I’ve had enough of my perfectionist ways and I’m now working on being a less-than-perfect mother… and it feels so good. It feels good to trust myself rather than Google.
It has become so mentally draining to habitually compare myself to other mothers and slowly, I’m learning the sky will not fall if she sleeps for an hour, or two, or just 40 minutes, if she naps on me or even skips the nap altogether. It really doesn’t matter if dinner isn’t eaten and instead we have yoghurt. Or if she pays with the toilet roll while I send an email, or if she’s wearing a strange mismatched outfit because they were the only clean options. I’m rewiring myself because, at the end of the day, the bond and love I have for my daughter, is all that truly matters.
By Leah, @_oursmallcompanions_
Image by @Mamiafros