looking through me

Tag: self-perception

April 25, 2015

perfectionless baking

Perfectionism pulses through me—not in all areas, but in many. Every once in a while I remember it is an uninvited presence, and I push pause on it. Today I hit the button as I stepped into the kitchen.

I handed Norah a custard cup of sprinkles and a spoon. I shaped and placed the sugar cookie dough, and she covered each piece in a mound of sprinkles. I didn’t show her how; I didn’t limit the amount she put on; I didn’t “fix” those with too few or too many; I didn’t squelch her not-so-secret sprinkle sampling. The end result? Cookies that were far from uniform but lavished in love—better than perfect.

Putting the perfectionism on the shelf wasn’t hard. Maybe because thirty-plus years of baking perfectionism can’t overwrite the memory of being the three-year old perched on the stepstool. I still remember Great-Grandma letting me roll the molasses cookies in sugar. I’m sure some had bare spots and some were smooshed out of shape. But I don’t remember her correcting me.

And today I know why she overlooked the imperfections. Today I understand what power there is in freeing a little girl to work without second-guessing herself or comparing one cookie to another.

It’s been a long time since I enjoyed baking as much as I did today. And I think the cookies tasted better with all of the love and none of the judgment.

 

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March 7, 2015

both and

My nephew has been dubbed “destructo-baby.” At six months he hammered a hard plastic Tweety Bird figurine against the solid oak coffee table and left dozens of dents. At nine months he ripped two sections of baseboard off the wall. At eleven months he took a bite out of the spine of a board book. At twelve months he used a hockey puck to spin a globe.

But then, I hold up my hand and say, “high five.” He smiles, leans toward me and ever-so-gently rests his splay-fingered hand against my palm.

He has the propensity to destroy and the propensity for great tenderness. He is both/and.

He rarely sleeps. And. He rarely cries.

He bites—people and things. And. He cuddles.

He eats books. And. He doesn’t complain when they’re taken away.

He is a force of mayhem and a sweet delight. He is both. He doesn’t hide either truth—he hasn’t learned to sweep the parts that have been reprimanded or the parts he doesn’t like into the shadows. He is who he is. All the time.

I, too, am both/and . . . but I’ve lost my transparency. I’ve compartmentalized in an attempt to be either/or. I fall into the trap of binary thinking, yet I know there are infinite points between zero and one. The line of my life contains them all. Still I try to control which facets I reveal of the image I’ve crafted for decades. But who is fooled?

My sharp edges and unflattering qualities take longer to surface in relationship than the time it takes for my nephew’s penchant for damaging things to emerge; but we both show more of ourselves than we realize.

 

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