Battling Perfectionism in Your Child
He is a healer. This boy. The salve to my soul. A child conceived. From us. Full of good and hope and grace.And he worries. Writing these words brings me to a place I know all too well. A place I feel inclined to hold concave in the vessel of my 4 chambers beating. A place I know is worthy of sharing if only I can muster up the sharing it right.
The day began our usual way. Together. Apart. Sorta back as one and then split again. HomeschoolingTeaching is musical chairs. Switching off with one to set the stage for the other. Encouraging. Impacting. Leading. Redirecting. Right after lunch, I found myself nestled in beside this one while the other worked independently. It was time for Chapter 7 in his book, and it was getting really good. As I listened to the rhythm of the words falling effortlessly and with devout conviction from his lips, I watched him fall deeper in love. With the story, and with what he adores. And my eyes lost all sanctity as the story's plot dissipated from my view. There, fingering the crinkled pages, I was drawn to his hands.
Around his nail beds, were tiny shred marks. Small & infinite. Proportionally wounded. Exposed & tender. His worries made flesh. My heart split as, in that moment, I found my son in a new season of life. A growing boy. Strong in opinion & scared all the same. Tearing his skin with his teeth from the nervous energy confined within.
Our boy is kindred to time. And to quiet. He efforts quality not quantity. He serves the ones unspoken. The ones waiting their turn. He sees a world where hurry and success and loud is happening. Busy. Boisterous. He feels it unsure of how to manage. Not just certain where he fits. My boy wrestles within.
Tall & handsome. Remarkable & kind. A leader unseen. His actions are best felt. Behind the scenes where the light glows dim. I watch him gaze outward with uncertainty and full-on curiosity too. He hasn't changed. Countless visits to the playground only to watch others play. Checking out their methods. Understanding more about their means. We did this when he was just a tiny toddler. We do this now only in different ways.
I write this for him. For the beautiful young man I see. For the commitment he brings to our family of 4. His loyalty. His compassion. His gentle presence. His quirky & precisely seeking ways. He is an anchor.Ours. Still searching for his methods. Trying harder to figure out his means.
I write this for me. For the hurt I have seeing his shreds. Small & infinite. Exposed & tender. I want him happy. I want him settled into his skin. I want my boy moved by the calling of his heart and tormented not by the struggles with doubt. His wounds are my little girl reminders. He seeks a certainty that does not exist. He suffers from perfection. I know, boy. It stifles you. Poisoning every inkling of the word try. It paralyzes you, too. Frozen in pursuit. Lost in a commitment you are so terrified to make. I know, sweet boy. Mama knows.
I write this for you. To remind us all that there is a place called freedom. It's found when Father Time sets down his watch. When Moms & Dads show up for healing. When prayers are flooded around heaven's gates for the ones little, unsure and lost in a battle that rages inside. Honest communication is the balm that heals. Encouragement & guidance are the dressings that cover the raw & exposed. Tough love & constant affection are the medicines prescribed to those shreds small & infinite.
A watcher & a feeler. A boy more concerned about what lifts others than the air he needs to fly. Under his wings, I pray for his soul to rest. Daily, I do. To lift and to glean in the light & sights made just for him. Free from doubt. From the severity of perfection as it rips. His hands are in our care. And, better still, they're held by a Maker who knows all about shreds. Small & infinite, our savior suffered perfection's plight too.
My sweet boy, you are a healer. Father time has removed his watch. Your Dad and I are here. There is so much air for soaring, and we can hardly wait for you to take flight. Believe. A little more each day. Small & infinite are your steps. Proportionately wounded, no more.
Yours always,
Mama