Once upon a time, there was a myth that I believed. A truth that I thought existed. A lie that I took into the deep places of my heart.
I wrapped myself up in this idea that there is a perfect mom. That there is this super-human, super-woman, crazy-insanely put together person that I could be.
Everyone. Ev-er-y-one has something. As children our flaws were wide open. As adults we have learned to cover and protect the hurts, the flaws. And to project our better side.
I have no qualms about admitting that I am not perfect.
I’m eyeball deep in anxiety most days. My kids make everlasting messes. They like bread instead of my carefully constructed, healthy suppers. Last night I discovered 2 cheesy breadsticks in my kids backpack for goodness sake. We had those 4 nights ago. So yeah. The anti-perfection runs strong here.
I am about a million miles to the side of perfection.
And I know. I know this. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” And yet…the measuring tape never really stays put away.
I measure my own delicately weaved fabric against the grains of another. Another story. Another life that God has weaved together with grace and wisdom.
I am not her. I am not that perfect woman. Perfect mother. I’m not even a perfect wife, friend, sister, daughter. I am deeply flawed.
“The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned”
-from Life is but a Weaving (the Tapestry Poem), original author unknown.*
But my imperfections make me beautiful. I am not a diamond, thrown away because of my flaws. My Lord loves me all the better for my struggles, my pain and discouragement.
I am a flawed being in a flawed world.
And I look at this grand new thing that is preschool. I see women who look like they have it all together. I know they are deeply flawed, just as I am.
The perfect preschool mom is a myth. No one can do it all, be it all.
No one in this world is perfect. We play pretend as if we were girls at dress up, prepared for high tea with our teddy bears.
But underneath, we all struggle.
Each day, each hour of my life is a gift. I will not waste it on useless comparison.
*Update: 3/19/18 Originally I thought that Corrie ten Boom was the author of this poem. As I researched more, I discovered that the author is widely disputed. For more on possible authorship of this poem see here.