Laying Down Perfect, Picking up Toys and Grace

Can I be honest? I have always held incredibly high expectations for myself. I know perfection isn’t obtainable, but for a long time, I wanted to get as close to it as humanly possible.

Then came motherhood.

When I first became a mom, my baby was like my little sidekick. We did everything together, and frankly, I felt like I was killing it. My life didn’t change the way more experienced moms warned me it would. I maintained a spotless home, put nutritious dinners on the table, and the laundry was not only done–it was even sorted by color. I was living my dream and staying entirely in control.

Enter baby number two. The stakes got higher, but I adapted. I established schedules and rhythms that allowed me to maintain control over the visible areas of life. Underneath the surface, the pressure was building. It would come when my kid would throw a tantrum in the middle of Publix, or if I forgot to repack the diaper bag and a diaper needed changing. In those moments, I felt like I was failing. Didn’t I teach my child how to act in public? Why didn’t I remember the diapers?

Instead of pausing, I just held my breath. Life kept rolling, and I kept holding that breath a little longer, convincing myself that if I could just keep all the things upright on my plate and walk really slow, nothing would fall.

Right before my second baby turned one, number three made her surprise appearance. I definitely did not have that on my bingo card. I looked at my already crowded plate and thought, Well, I guess this can fit right here. It’s tight, but I can make it work.

But life didn't just keep rolling; it accelerated. It felt like everything that I had built was crumbling. First, we had to leave our "perfect" rental house. Then, my favorite vehicle was traded in for a minivan. To top it off, one of my children needed some extra developmental help. Instead of seeing it as a normal part of parenting, my perfectionism was selling a different story: here I was, failing again.

This was not the image of motherhood I had envisioned. Suddenly, I had more kids than hands to cross the street, two of them in diapers, and a relocation that felt like moving to the ends of the earth, far away from civilization and my community.

I felt completely trapped. On the surface, I was still playing it cool, doing just fine. But underneath, I was suffocating. I knew I was going to have to exhale soon, or I was going to pass out. I started looking for external lifelines, convinced that if my husband didn’t work such long hours, or if we could just move to a bigger house where I could spread out, I’d finally be able to breathe again. I even thought that if I were just able to spend more time with my child, I could be the one to teach them what they needed. I was starting to feel faint. 

I was sitting with a friend one evening, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I just laid it all out there with a really good, ugly cry. She quietly nudged me, “You can’t see the forest for the trees, my friend.” Together, we walked through some of my discontentment and the reality that my life didn’t look exactly how I envisioned it. All I could see were the problems or the things that felt hard and weren't going right. I was missing the gift that I had actually been given. There it was, I finally exhaled. 

It still took some time for me to find how beautiful my life actually was–it was a slow and gentle transition. These precious beings that I was frantically trying to shape into mini adults were actually made exactly how God intended, temper tantrums and all. Slowly, I was breathing again. Were my dishes done every night? No. Were there toys scattered from here to kingdom come? Yes. But I think we could all breathe a little bit better. 

As my kids have gotten older, God has given me even more freedom in this area. He has shown me that I don’t have to be in control of everything or get it perfect every time. I am just a steward of what He has given me. He is the one in control. And my kids are better for it. They get to be exactly who God created them to be. Our home feels like there is life in it because my kids are able to mess up without me feeling like I’ve done something wrong and then projecting that judgment or embarrassment on them. There is still some discipline and refining that happens, but it doesn’t stem from a place of perfection anymore–it comes from grace. 

And guess who else gets to rest and be exactly who God created them to be?

Me.

~Anessa Tillett, Worthy Content Writer