A Common Misconception - The Perfect Mother

A few days ago I had a particularly bad day, largely in part to my lack of sleep the night before. My daughter had some vivid nightmares and woke up screaming my name. The jarring noise of a loud yell and traumatic tears is not how I prefer to be awakened. I am known to be a person who adores the veil of sleep more than most. It is easily in the top two list of my basic needs in life. I would more commonly pass up chocolate, trinkets and money in the pursuit of slumber; but, duty called and up I rose. Angry. Tired. Removed from a pleasant dream. A parent's job, proverbially, never done. Not even at night.

As luck may have it, my daughter went back to sleep quite easily after both events. The first was at 12:30 a.m. The second was at 6:00 a.m. The in between time, however, found me, with my delicate and very specific needs, unable to sleep - something for which I am always afraid. I tossed, turned, arose for innumerable trips to the bathroom, returned, re-tossed, repeated, countless times. Unsettled. Awake. Not happy. Stewing in this unhappiness.

The next day, therefore, found me as a wreck. Anyone who knows me, knows how truly worthless I become when I miss a night of sleep. Even skimming a couple of hours off of my normal night finds me less adequate in my tasks. No sleep = no good. So, I plodded around the house, sulking in my misery, cursing parenthood and all of the seemingly endless aspects for which my fondness had waned. And then, I did the worst possible thing a mother can do (besides leaving the T.V. on all day - which, on that day, I assure you, I was guilty of doing). I yelled at my child. My little angel. The one, single person in this world that I love truly, deeply, beyond belief. I yelled, like a tyrant; not for any particular reason. There was no just cause. I was just yelling for the sake of yelling. And, I felt like I spent the whole day carrying on that way. I yelled about inconsequential things. Things that didn't matter. I carried on like a crazy person.

Then, as all moments have their crescendos, I ended my symphony of rage with some tears. Buckets of them, rivers of them, enough for us both to swim in. I never wanted to be this kind of mother. I had read all of the books that noted this behavior as traumatic to the child - something that a good mother would avoid. I told myself before she was born that I would resist all of my own temper tantrums for the sake of her emotional well-being. And then, with all of my other great intentions in life, those pretty affirmations flew away like a bird - a mockingbird, mocking the fact that I had failed. I was far from being the perfect mother I had aspired to be.

Then, in the midst of my tears running, my child did the most poignant thing. She grabbed a tissue and began to wipe my eyes. She patted each one as delicately as I would have wiped hers. Then, she dabbed the trail beneath my nose and looked at me with a smile. This smile wasn't her typical, impish smile that hinted at mischievousness. Instead, it was a smile of an old soul, gazing right into my eyes, offering her forgiveness and the cherished fact that she would love me no matter what. I was her mother, imperfect and (at times) immature; but, she loved me regardless of my faults. So, why had I gotten so worked up? I had completely forgotten about the lack of sleep. I was just focusing, instead, on my perceived failure as a mother. But, if my child could forgive me my faults, why couldn't I do the same?

I started thinking about motherhood - its images as they are perpetrated by the world, by fellow mothers, by Hallmark and the Lifetime Channel - and I realized how we are often misguided in our interpretations of what a good mother should be. The typical image is that of a nearly-perfect, kind being who has no thoughts, goals, feelings or needs. Essentially, a non-entity. Just a person, quiet and sincere, always ready to serve and support. No yelling. No bad words. No frustrations. No fatigue. No frowns. No tears. Just endless happiness and euphoria over the presence of her family. After all, what more could a mother need?

I don't know exactly who pinned this ideal in my mind, or where I was influenced to believe that this is the definition of a perfect maternal figure, but there is no simpler way to put it - she is a false icon. Similar to the tooth-fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus and the like, she doesn't exist. She is a concoction of all of our collective hopes and dreams; but, in her "existence," she serves only to make us all feel less than adequate in our daily realm. In other words, with reality in mind, no mother could possibly rank to the levels of perfection as it is outlined by any society. We all fall short; and, in so doing, we all feel like failures (at least, at some point or another).

Living with that in mind, I decided that I would stop reading those books on parenting. Stop watching those movies. Stop believing the myths that other mothers perpetrate. Stop examining every moment of my life as though it were a sports match, foul points mounting, time ticking away on the clock. Stop viewing "perfection" as the goal. And, most importantly, stop being so unrealistic in my life. So, I had a bad day. It happens. It will most assuredly happen again. But, instead of getting hung up on those moments (thinking that I am certainly scarring my child for allowing her to see me, "warts and all"), I decided I would gauge my quality as a mother in one way - by my child. She is a happy girl, lively and full of spirit. Shy to strangers. Sweet to those who know her. Eccentric in her demands and desires. Kean and clever. Funny, even. And, oh so kind. She wiped my eyes when I cried; she's only two. I know I am far from being a perfect mother, but I am honest in the fact that I am trying my best. And, I have decided that just might be the real definition of perfection.