Perfectly Imperfect

Yesterday was one of those crazy Monday mornings. My five-year-old refused to get dressed, finish her breakfast, have her teeth brushed, put on shoes, or leave for school. Instead, she screamed for what felt like hours but was really only about 45 minutes. I cycled through first being caring and reasonable and finished by shouting and throwing out threats. 

We finally left the house, and when I parked the car (the closest you can get to school for drop-off is about half a mile away), I got her bike out of the trunk, chucked it on the ground, and hissed through clenched teeth, “Get on your bike and ride to school!” I marched ahead and she rode as slowly as possible behind me. Neither of us was covering ourselves in glory! 

We bumped into a friend, and I described the events of the morning. “I try not to shout,” she said, “I find it escalates things.” Grrrrrr. I smiled and the conversation moved on.

You might think this is one of those stories comparing what it was like while I was in active food addiction with what it’s like now that I’m in recovery, and in a way, it is. I am responsible enough now to have children, maintain a relationship with a spouse, and help keep a roof over our heads. (I really didn’t function well during my addiction to food, alcohol, and drugs, and I couldn’t look after myself, let alone anyone or anything else.) 

My behavior yesterday happened despite being abstinent for 18 years. Even so, I’m proud of myself. Only a few months ago, yesterday morning’s experience would have ended with what I’ve told you so far. I would have spent the whole day feeling guilty, ashamed, and “wrong” for losing my temper. While I could feel those emotions hovering around the edges, they didn’t overwhelm me.

I made calls to other mothers in FA and we laughed and talked about simply being good enough, rather than perfect. Those feelings didn’t swamp me because I can focus on everything that happened once I got my daughter to school. When we got there, we put her bike away, sat down, and had a good talk. I apologized for shouting, and we talked about how we were feeling. I shared that we needed to set some boundaries. “I love you. I do not love those behaviors. How can we change them?” is often heard now in our house. She apologized. We hugged, and she went into class happy.

In thinking about my friend’s comment, I noticed that I didn’t feel angry about her judgment. I can certainly trot out unhelpful things at times when caught unaware, but now I am secure enough in myself to let other people have their beliefs; who knew? I also noticed that while I agree with her in principle, I don’t agree in practice. 

The best parent encouragement I ever got was from an FA fellow who said, “My kids have heard me swear, shout, and seen me really angry, but they’ve also seen me apologize, clean up my mess, and try to change.” I think that is so much more important. 

Unfortunately, I can’t show my kids how to clean up mistakes if I don’t ever do anything wrong. I have to be imperfect if I want to teach them it’s okay for them to be imperfect. And I am ragingly imperfect, so they get lots of opportunities! And when (not if) my imperfections happen too regularly, I have a whole recovery program designed to help me change. I trust that FA works because I’ve experienced it.

More than anything, I kept sight of who I am and how I want to parent. Those choices and the agency to follow them are one of the many gifts of recovery. It doesn’t really matter whether my choices turn out to be the best ones; the fact that I have thought about them, talked about them, asked for input from my higher power, and then listened, gives me self-respect and peace of mind, something I never got from any amount of food. I like myself today, exactly as I am.