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I Was the Perfect Mother
Until I wasn’t, my fall from grace
“I’ve gotta go,” I say.
“Where?” My sister asks.
“It’s time for carpool and I need to be the first in line.”
Like most mothers, I am trying to over-correct the mistakes of the past.
Our own mom had been notoriously late. I was the last child picked up at school, at birthday parties, at you name it. It was stressful and I was going to make sure my child didn’t meet that type of anxiety.
“Colleen,” My sister says. “Did it ever occur to you that the first time you aren’t first you might send your child into a different type of anxiety?”
Point well taken though I had never thought of it.
My sister was trying to say that perfection can be just as worrisome as our transgressions. If the day came where I was fifteen minutes behind or gasp, the dreaded last mommy to show up, my child might be consumed with worry.
I started to seek a balance in the overzealousness of new mommyhood.
But I won’t lie.
I still sought perfection.
I wanted to be the perfect mommy.
Who doesn’t it?
