I have another confession to make…
I’m a (recovering) perfectionist.
I’ll never be fully recovered, and somedays, you wouldn’t even guess that I was trying to resist my perfectionist tendencies.
But I have seen the ravages of my perfectionism in both my life, and now in my boys.
It is a constant struggle for me to accept their best efforts on housework, especially. And I see how my subtle tone of voice, or face I make affects them.
And it breaks my heart. How one simple gesture or word can deflate their excitement or pride in something they’ve accomplished. Especially when it’s something they’ve done to be a blessing to me.
Just last night, while I was with Monkey Boy at lacrosse practice, and Hubs was with Puppy Lover at his lacrosse game, sweet Mr Football painted part of our basement to be a blessing to us, since this is such a busy season for us, and finishing the basement is taking longer than we hoped.
Hubs told me that he did a pretty good job of painting, but there were some spots where he left some paint drips on the wall.
I took a deep breath, and in that second, I realized that those paint drips just don’t matter. What matters is that my 15 year old son, who easily could’ve been playing video games in the quiet house, chose instead to help out and paint the walls in the basement.
Not many boys his age would’ve made that choice.
So his painting skills are a work in progress, and so are my reactions. And that’s ok. Progress, not perfection.
One day, I will look at those paint drips, when he’s no longer a resident of this home, and remember his servant’s heart. And I will have tears in my eyes that day, as I do as I write this now.
And I will be thankful that I chose to be thankful for his efforts instead of expecting perfection.
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