My Grown-Up Christmas Wish

I recently read something that touched deep down and planted solid roots. It, in a sense, stated that as you get older, the gifts you really want can not be bought; at least not with money. As I woke this Christmas Eve, feeling a rare sense (for me anyway) of calm and peace, this concept spoke to me and asked the desires of my heart to come forth. Truly, what I want are things that can not be bought.

Of course, the material, like a bottle of “Beautiful” to throw me into a sense of peace each time I take a whiff or something grand like my dream classic Jag would be nice. The quintessential peace on earth and goodwill toward every atom in the universe would be nice, too. But, what I really want, is to forgive myself for the expectation of perfection I have lived and died a a bit by each day since childhood.

Perfection to me has been ingrained as far as I can remember.  It’s origin so faint, that I don’t know when I wasn’t like this. Vivid memories of throwing away a 2nd grade art project because I didn’t think it was good enough, getting mad after a Casa del Prado dance performance because someone else messed up and “we” weren’t good enough, not being tall enough to model made me not good enough, not getting straight A’s because I wasn’t smart enough. After marrying and becoming a mother, the whole not good enough shifted to I’m not mother enough to: have children reading at age 2, not mother enough to have home cooked meals nightly, children that sit quietly instead of run like banshees (boy-child only), potty training didn’t happen fast enough and bedtime stories, homework checking, team momming and volunteering didn’t happen enough, therefore, I was still not good enough.

Having older kids means having to worry that I’m not good enough at checking online accounts, pushing for homework perfection in them, not good enough to have the money for private schools and club teams, not around emotionally or physically enough, you name it. And that’s external. My hair, my weight, lack friendships and social commitments on my calendar, the chores I haven’t done or books I haven’t read are thrown into the imperfection cauldron.

Exhaustion and depression set in with every review of that list and for that, this year, on this Christmas, I give myself the gift of letting it all go. Each experience, person, situation, though many have been the opposite of what the trying to be perfect me wanted, are let go. In Christianease I say, “Perfection, I rebuke you!”

My gift to the rest of you is the words I wish would have absorbed into my core so many years ago, “You are perfect the way you are. Your smile radiates the spirits of those around you. Your hugs hold up civilizations and your laughter stops tears and plants the seeds of smiles. You, my dear, don’t need to fight for a perfection that has been drawn from pieces of the masses, you are the perfect you as you are when you are just being. So this Christmas, just be, my dear.”

My words to you. Merry Christmas.