Good enough. Not great, not terrible. But good enough. Could I really be that kind of parent?
Before kids (BK), I was a bit of a perfectionist. Always have been. I never liked to do anything unless I felt I could excel or put my best foot forward. In college, I remember skipping class if I was running five minutes late, because I hated to walk in with all eyes on me, the delinquent. I recall passing on a night out, if my outfit felt too tight or ill fitting. Or forgoing a date with my husband or lazy Sunday mornings, because we had SO much to do.
That was BK. I wish I could shake the crazy out of my twenty-something self. But after kids, knee-deep in the grade school years and toddler-gone-wild current state of my youngest, I dream of those moments of sweet freedom. Of having the luxury to be a perfectionist. Because let me tell you, ain’t nothing perfect no more.
A friend of mine has a mantra – “good enough.” As in things don’t have to be perfect; good enough is good enough. This is very hard for me to accept. But accept it I must, because I was running myself 50 shades of ragged trying to keep up the old me.
I gradually began testing the waters, serving up nuggets when I just couldn’t bear preparing one more delicious, nutritious, Pinterest-worthy dinner that everyone hated. Allowing my daughter to dress herself, no matter how crazy the outcome, not combing her hair and putting in an adorable, jaunty bow. Keeping them at after-school care an extra hour — not for working or urgent errands — but to binge watch The Walking Dead re-runs and zone out for an hour.
Good enough seems like a slippery slope. When does “good enough” turn in to “good” and then just “OK?” I don’t want to be just OK. But I can’t be perfect. So I guess I just have to keep balancing the scale, mixing in the nuggets and the crazy hair with my Pinterest endeavors. When the moms at the drop off line give my daughter a wayward glance, I can hold my head high knowing it is good enough for my family. And that is good enough for me.