When I was a little girl, I was the type of child who’d carefully study my mom, dad and older siblings (anybody, really) in order to ascertain the exact right way of doing everything, from riding a bike to behaving in church to blowing bubblegum. I could focus my attention so pointedly during my observations that I could discern and then replicate, for example, the ideal length of chewing time, proper positioning of the mouth, exact isolation of the tongue, and optimal release of air—to achieve the perfectly rounded, perfectly nose-touching (watermelon-flavored) Bubblicious bubble. It took me about two hours one summer afternoon when I was six years old (I’m still pretty good at it).
What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always applied the watch-and-learn, never-surrender-until-it's-right model, and I’ve always found success with it. Okay, almost always.
There is but one awesome entity that has tested this heretofore tried-and-true method, one challenge so massive that it can be conquered by no single method at all, one insurmountable force so powerful that it might very well be beyond mastery. That force is Parenting. It’s unpredictable, it’s messy, it has no set rules, and if/when, after grueling research and a series of failures, you finally manage to establish rules … the game changes. It’s a perfectionist’s [recurring] nightmare.
Only after the birth of my second child did I start to learn how to let go of the idea of perfection, or the exact right way of doing things. Quite simply, it became too defeating to live like that, and it was taking away from the joy of parenting. Releasing myself from certain standards has been a process, though. I’m still learning to let go, to go with the flow, to live in the moment—all that stuff. But I feel like I’ve come a long way. I remain a proud perfectionist in much of what I do, but as for parenting, I am now a happy (somewhat calmer) realist, and that feels great.
I was reminded of this personal journey earlier in the week when I brought the kids to one of our favorite local playgrounds—Woodman Park. This park is off the beaten path, it’s small, it’s surrounded by woods and it’s almost always empty. That’s kind of why I like it. It’s a place I can go with the kids and have real one-on-one time with them. While one or two playmates are ideal for Henry and serve to bring out the best in him, a crowd of children can sometimes be over-stimulating for him and (being his mother’s child), he gets overwhelmed trying to pay attention to everyone and everything in the very intense manner he wants to; as a result, he might shut down, melt down or go totally wild (which can be totally fun, but totally exhausting).
At Woodman, we can spend an hour sitting quietly together in the toddler play structure make-believing it’s a Delta airplane headed for Ohio. Henry pilots the plane and even stewards from time to time. We’ve gone as far as Hawaii! We’ve also learned how to shoot baskets at Woodman, how to be brave and climb the taller play structure, and how to race down the dueling side-by-side slides. But what’s even more special about this park is that it sits in the middle of a wooded area, allowing us to sometimes wander off up the nearby trail or across the field to play in the open grass. Since embarking on our mission to spend more unstructured time outdoors, I’ve noticed we’re wandering off more often than not—and having even better adventures.
On Thursday, a little girl—probably two-and-a-half years old—and her grandma came to play at Woodman while we were there. She had her dolly with her and she laughed and smiled as she pushed her dolly in the swing. She was somewhat timid about things like climbing too high, and going too fast down the slide; but she loved watching Henry and Sadie fearlessly scrambling up and through the structure. I could see the admiration in her eyes and the light of motivation going off in her head. Her grandma encouraged her, but followed close behind ready to assist and ward off accidents. Still, the little girl wasn’t quite ready yet. Neither was grandma. In that moment, I recalled being in the grandma’s shoes with Henry at this exact playground when he was almost two, and holding him back from climbing for fear he would lose his balance—all the while the rest of the playgroup kids were jumping, hanging and climbing like monkeys.
Things were different now. This particular day was proof because the kids were playing so freely and competently, and I felt secure in their abilities (and in my instinct to trust). But soon enough, Sadie tired of the slides and swings. I called her over to look at a black-and-orange flying bug—the very same type of bug we’d watched ride the waves at the beach recently. We decided to follow him. He led us beyond the boundaries of the playground and over to a tasty and shaded leaf at the bottom of a small nearby hill. We sat watching it and talking. Henry came over, too.
The little girl and her grandma were intrigued by our stillness, wondering what had instantly captivated two rambunctious children to the point of stillness and silent wonder. They, too, wandered off the playground to get a closer look. I got the sense that it was the first time they had done that.
Our bug-watching turned into races up and down the grassy hill. Henry and Sadie laughed and laughed as they tried to steady their pace and bodies on the downhill runs. Henry was happy to win most of the races. Every once in a while, they’d scoot down the hill on their bottoms, even with slides a stone’s throw away—it was just more fun this way.
The little girl still stood and watched. Her grandma encouraged her again to join the fun and run with us. Surprisingly, she started running. She felt safer in the grass, and after just one or two runs she was visibly more confident in her own abilities. She wore a proud smile as she conquered the hill. I could tell from the waving of her arms and the spinning of her skirt that she felt free and happy.
By then, Henry had run past the field all the way out to the tree line to collect sticks (and possibly use the bathroom, sorry to say). Sadie had taken to curtseying to each of the white button-top mushrooms dotting the field right before lopping them off by the neck and tossing them in the air. I got up off the grass and followed after her. When I looked back across the field, I saw the grandma and the girl still playing on the hill. I felt happy that we had helped them have a new, spontaneous adventure that day. And I was grateful to recognize that I had finally arrived at a point where I not only welcomed spontaneous adventures, but enjoyed the heck out of them. The perfectionist in me felt satisfied, too, because in the imperfect world of parenting, I had managed to shift my definition of perfection and be happy with who I am as a parent (for now).
