Kylie Orr
I recently took a personality test. Love those things. It came back with a nice neat label for my kind of people: Perfectionists. I laughed, snorted and scoffed simultaneously. I like to believe I am much more flexible and spontaneous than the stereotypical perfectionist.
So what if I like things and people around me to be perfect? Nothing wrong with having high standards, right? My husband raised one eyebrow and went back to reading the paper. He’s lived with a perfectionist for ten years and doesn’t need a personality test to confirm it.
This obsession with perfection began early. My mum recounts a story of me in Grade Six when a spelling test was returned with a score of 99/100 and the comment from the teacher, “You could have done better, Kylie.”
My mother (a self-confessed non-Perfectionist) was suitably horrified and marched up to school to share her thoughts on the teacher’s comment. I appreciated her defence but I was not happy with that one mistake. I didn’t make mistakes.
Before I embarked on this life-with-children, I worked hard and as a result, achieved my goals. University degree? Tick. Save up and travel overseas? Tick. Find a gorgeous hunk of a man and pin him down before he succumbs to the evils of beer and debauchery? Tick, sort of. (See, I can be flexible).
My expectations were unrealistically high of myself and equally high of others. I thought having high standards was a commendable trait.
I mastered each new phase by putting in the groundwork and applying my knowledge. A chihuahua on a trouser leg with issues that needed resolving; HR was my thing because solution was my middle name.
I would have changed it to my first name had the Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages allowed it. I saw success as something that could be achieved, in time, with hard work and determination.
Failure? I had some very colourful F words in my vocabulary but Failure was not one of them. I was focused on succeeding as a parent (whatever that meant) and thought I would follow that same sturdy, predictable path of blood, sweat and tears to reach the top.
A crash helmet and full body suit could not have protected me from the fall I took when I had children. Failure became not just my first name but my middle and surnames. This was new and very uncomfortable for me. I did not do failure elegantly.
Put in the hard yards and you will be appropriately rewarded. That's what I knew. So, I stuck out those first few weeks of breastfeeding hell, and eventually got the knack.
I endured sleepless nights for, well, shall we say six years now, and all my persistence and hard work has led me to a padded room rather than a glowing success story of perseverance. I was raised with all the friendly clichés: “hard work pays off”; “good things come to those who wait”; “always wear clean undies in case you get hit by a bus”.
Thankfully, children have metaphorically slapped me in the face, many, many times, and helped me realise when it comes to raising a family, those cliches are a busload of bull. Children are, after all, wee people. And wee people don’t always fit a formula. Logical solutions that had been my salvation in the past, didn’t seem to apply to my wee people.
When the first child screamed endlessly for hours I brilliantly surmised something must be wrong. What was it? Tired? Here. Have a nice warm cot. Oh, you don’t like the cot? Maybe you’re hungry. Here have some milk. No, not that either. Hmm. More poo? No. What is it? When are you going to learn to talk? Process of elimination didn’t always lead to the answer.
I needed answers. I was flailing about in the deep end expected to rely on intuition. Mother’s Instinct? I’m sure it was there somewhere. Find the G-spot and turn left. Where were my GPS and floaties?
If you’re not a perfectionist, high achiever, control freak or eternal worrywart, you may be wondering which planet let us loose on earth, and more concerning, let us have children. If we could just learn to relax and stop thinking so much everything would be ok.
I've found telling a perfectionist to take a chill pill and lighten up, is equivalent to telling someone suffering depression to just “get over it”.
I’ll share a recent thought process with you:
I like to sing stupid songs. For a perfectionist, this is a little left of centre because I cannot hold a tune. My voice could break windows, make dogs howl and turn a hearing man deaf. Still, I enjoy making up ridiculous songs and singing them to my children. I am known to do this in the car, on the way to school, whilst carpooling a neighbour’s child.
Last week, my six year old said, “Mummy? You know how you sing those silly songs all the time?” “Yesiree!” I shouted, pumping the air with my fist, thinking he shared the same enthusiasm for the frivolity that I did. “Can you not do that anymore? Especially when other people are in the car?”
So, I welcome my kid’s first embarrassed moment involving his mother with a night of fretful sleep. One side of my brain says, “Lighten up, kid and get used to it! One day, you’ll appreciate just how fun your mum is!” I rationalise that this will help my serious firstborn with his challenged sense of humour.
The other side of my brain says, “This could be a life altering moment for your son. The first time he really shares his feelings and you choose to ignore it all in the name of “fun”. This could lead him to drugs and alcohol at an early age because he feels like he was invalidated as a child. He’ll end up on Oprah and convey the first time he tried to talk to his mother only to be so rudely disregarded.”
You get the gist.
Over analysing, over researching, over worrying (maybe a dash of complete exaggeration of the facts), and perhaps just a miniscule need for control are common with us high achievers. We need positive feedback to validate our actions. With kids, the feedback we get is often in the form of tantrums, misbehaviour, and attitude with a couple of hugs thrown in for good measure.
Making a decision doesn’t come naturally unless there is evidence to suggest the outcome will be favourable. I won’t know if the decisions I have made are favourable until my kids are at least twenty. That’s 14 years away. That’s torture! I am going to have one massive stomach ulcer to show for my perfectionism. And hopefully three very well adjusted children. If I’m extra lucky, my husband will have put up with me for the ride. Thank crikey the man is a relaxed soul.
You may say children are not something to “achieve” or “succeed” at; they are not problems to be solved or enemies to be conquered. Tell this to a perfectionist. Just make sure you are wearing a helmet.
Are you a high achiever (or are you married to one)? Did you (or they) find parenting a difficult adjustment? Comment on Kylie's blog here.
Read other Kylie Orr blogs.
