Thursday, June 27, 2013

Unfinished me

I have always been somewhat of a perfectionist. Ok, not somewhat, but 100% perfectionist. I strive for flawlessness and always set extremely high, sometimes unattainable standards. Some would even describe me as a little bit neurotic.

It's not always a good thing to want to strive for perfection. It has come back at me several times. Ok, several times one-thousand times...

As of late, I've battled with my inner perfectionism demons. I have unfinished projects, unorganized closets and stacks of paper in my office. These are all things that I never used to have and if I did, I was a major stress case and wouldn't go to bed at night until everything was, perfect.

I blame a couple things for my leniency. Children and my new found love for the the universe and what it has to offer. When I am busy cleaning away or wanting to finish painting bathroom trim that I started three months ago, it is then that I realize my toddler is busy playing in this room talking away to his stuffed animals. Yes, that is a good thing but I also want to be the one he's talking to...

While my teenager is busy being, well, a teenager and wanting his space from mom, my toddler is at such a prime learning age. He is two and at two he is like a little sponge. I can really teach him anything I want right now from how to count to ten in Spanish or the difference between an ant and a spider. I don't want to miss these moments because I was too busy cleaning closets or organizing silverware drawers. The unfinished paint project in the boys' bathroom drives me nuts - Every. Single. Day- but I have taught myself not to care anymore; because honestly, who is judging me for not finishing the job? If they are, then they don't know me and don't really need to be a part of my life.

I am still high strung, and still a perfectionist, but I have learned to control it quite a bit. Analyzing everything I do and how I do it was getting me nowhere.  If something isn't worth stressing over or isn't attainable then, meh, I move on and worry about the bigger, more important things. The things that breathe and giggle and make me smile. My children. My perfect children who think I am the perfect mom.

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