perfectionism

I am a perfectionist. And a procrastinator. It's a bad combination. Common combination, but still not a great one. I also know why I am a perfectionist. It's what has been drilled into me from birth by my father.

Let's backtrack a bit. Long story short, my father married my mother under less than honest circumstances. He portrayed himself as something other than what he felt he really was, and decided that having a family would fix everything. Catch was, that family had to be perfect. It had to look good. My mom was not pushy that way, but came from a long line of "stiff upper lip", "don't show your weakness" women. Not a great combination.

Being the compliant child I was, I bought into it easily. Good table manners, please and thank you, "party tricks" that I could pull out at dinner parties...all of that. Then dad figured out I was smart. I was reading by 3.5 (like my son!), was tested, and came up gifted. To keep me from being bored in school, I got put into music lessons. I did really well, despite being terribly shy, group lessons can help with that. Then dad started pushing me.

I was pushed to be the best in school, and I skipped a grade. I was pushed to be the best in music, and I didn't want to be. I was pushed to do everything well. Because, of course, MY doing well made dad look good, right? I can honestly say that I did do really well when I tried to. But I didn't like being pushed. I was shy, remember? I didn't like being "out there" as being "good" at stuff. That didn't fit with being pushed.

As I got older, I started pushing back. I hated piano. Scratch that, I enjoyed playing, I hated practicing. Especially when dad was home. I hated making mistakes. When he was around, he was really good at pointing out my mistakes as I practiced. I was finally able to quit at age 12, but it sure took a lot of fighting. He was also really good at pointing out where I came up short in school. Grade 9 is a big year in Quebec, first year of provincial exams. I was in a 'big academic' high school, had done some gifted programs there, and was aware of the pressure of big exams where you were measured against all the other grade 9 students in the province. Geography was the class. I was a whiz. I went into the final exam with a year to date average of 95%. I completed the exam with a 97%. Top 3% of the whole province. What did dad say? "where is the other 3 percent?" Now, I know he was joking...sort of.

Then we moved to BC. I quickly figured out that the BC curriculum was way different from the QU one. It was easier. So I stopped working. I stopped caring. I stopped going to class. Dad wasn't home much, and it was easy to slack off without him being around much to push me. Besides, my little sister wasn't doing well in school, so it was easy to hide behind her shortcomings. I failed a class for the first time ever. It actually felt good. I coasted through high school, only doing what I had to do get by. I had lots of teachers talk to me about how well I could do, if I tried, if I wrote the papers, if I showed up. But I didn't care. It felt good to know that I could do it without trying. I didn't want to go to University, because dad wanted me to, and I was tired of making him happy.

I was also scared. I didn't know what I wanted to do! I was never the kid who knew from grade 1 that I wanted to be a teacher, or a doctor, or a whatever. I just didn't know, and I wasn't about to make up my mind. I was too scared to mess up something big. High school was nothing, it was easy to get by, do the social thing to the best of my ability. I knew that University was big, and I didn't want to mess something big up. Something expensive. I hated failing. I was a perfectionist on my own, but the pushing from my dad sure didn't help. At all. I was also young, I wasn't ready to move away from home to go to school, and I couldn't deal with living at home - between my dad's expectations, I had a social group that wasn't big on university and I like to be a bit of a party girl.

So I did nothing. Put it off. (procrastination again, I'm really good at that) Heaven forbid I fail at something. I attempted a semester of college, 3 courses, at the insistence of my dad. THAT was a dismal failure. My GPA was...get this... .43. Yes that was a decimal point, with nothing before it. I was having too much fun, well, in life to attend class. I had a boyfriend, a semi-boyfriend, things to do, places to go, people to see...and none of them were in my classes.

Whatever. I moved on, found the Lord, met Rob...all good things. My teenage rebellion stuff was over. I was now doing what I wanted, to a point, not under my dad's pressure. That was good. But I was still dealing with my own pressure. Failing was still painful, hard and scary. I didn't like trying stuff I wasn't going to be good at right away. I didn't like coming up short at all.

I ended up going back to school. I did a 2 year diploma in PR. I was great at it, I was getting fantastic grades, especially in the academic courses. I was thrilled to be succeeding, excelling even. Being encouraged by some of my teachers to step out and do new things, to take the lead on projects. What a huge ego boost...and then coming home to a husband who was thrilled for me. He was supportive of me, regardless of my grades, where I stood in relation to the others in my class. That was wonderful.

Well, then I realized that corporate PR wasn't my thing at that point. I also got pregnant with Isaac. I worked, did great at my job, they wanted me to come back after mat leave ended. I chose to stay home with the little guy.

So now I face some of my issues as a parent. I was pushed to produce perfection. I then pushed myself in some ways. I don't want to pass that on to my kids. I struggle enough with not being able to ask for help when I need it, I *have* to have it together. I don't want my kids to feel that an attempt isn't good enough. That just trying isn't enough to win my affection. I love them no matter what. Their public faces don't elevate me, their accomplishments don't bring me glory, their strengths aren't my doing. I need to remind myself of that. I need to allow my kids to fail, to try their best and have that be ok. To try, to be, to experience. To hit a wrong note, to get dirty, to make mistakes. What I wish I had been able to do.

Now I'm not bitter, but I do wonder what might have been. I don't want to live vicariously through my kids, but I sure hope they don't carry the baggage over being perfect that I did. I don't fully blame my dad for this either, it was just a part of the bigger picture.

So I'm typing this out, while I 'should' be cleaning my kitchen...but it's late, and I felt like being a bit of a psychologist on myself...and the dishes will wait.