I see it and hear it on one forum after another and in women’s conversations all the time: “You’re a saint!” “You’re my hero!” “You’re SUPER WOMAN!” And those comments throw heaps of weight onto every woman’s shoulders who hears them (real or imagined). I want to scream: No, no she’s not! And, no you’re not ! And and I’m not either!
Super woman is only a good thing fictitiously speaking, and only in the strange places my husband likes to visit every Wednesday when the ‘new issues come out.’
She, Super Woman herself, has done more to create havoc in our lives than we know. Funnily enough, she’s someone we really never talk about to anyone, but ah-we think about her every.single.day. And in those thoughts, she speaks to us.
*you’re not doing enough
*you should be more like Ella, Jim’s wife…did you see the way she…?
*or, Cody’s mom: president of the PTA, room mother, snack Queen etc
*you need to lose 50lbs, get your hair colored, drive another car…and then you can try to fit in with that crowd, but until then—consider yourself, loser
*you don’t spend enough time with your children
*you haven’t fixed healthy meals recentlly — like all good moms do
*who could blame your husband for looking elsewhere when you’re sooooo tired from working and cleaning and taking care of the children 14 hours a day; he works too
*when you were younger you could, did, were _____, and now look at you
*everyone else has: a clean, tidy and organized house, well dressed (and behaved) children, plenty of money, grand date nights out every week with their husbands who gush over them, new cars that shine and purr, a college degree or two, children attending the best private schools, dinner served nightly on fine china, time for a hot breakfast (and not of the oatmeal kind), delicious lunches to go and weekends free to entertain their friends
(Are you still with me?)
Do you hear her, too?
Well, I’m so far from Super Woman. As a matter of fact, I’m as imperfect as they come.
I am sitting in a room that I’ll have to be careful to not trip over something when I get up from my desk. I think, but am not sure, my laundry room has flooring in place. In a grand valor effort, I started an exercise program this week-yesterday to be exact; I now have shinsplints. My youngest was running the dog up and down the road this morning donning in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Boxers; it was 50 degrees. We ordered in pizza for dinner, our bank account is screaming, lunch to go means go to the fridge and see what we have, my china has remained safely in its place since we moved in 12 years ago, and the last date I had with my (yes, adoring) husband was during a work function. I think.
I am perfectly imperfect. It’s who I am. I’m good with that. You should be, too.
To portray to our children that we are perfect-super women, if you will, only proves to set them up for certain failure. For we know, the surest route to failure is to settle for nothing less than perfection. I only know of one perfect person who has ever lived, and He loved me so much He died for me. Setting our sights on perfection is the path to certain failure. Don’t get me wrong; striving for excellence is noteworthy and a goal worthy of pursuing, but alas there’s a grave difference between excellence and perfection. Only one is attainable. Think about that.
Often times, I am afraid. I am disorganized where I used to be flawlessly scheduled. I get lonely. I can feel inadequate, and for no real reason. I wish better for my children, yet I’m doing my best. I would love to win the lottery (but I don’t play it!). Every day I ponder the thorn-in-my-flesh and my physical struggles. Every day! Not often do my plans for the day and the day’s end shake hands in affirmation. My to-do list is every growing and never ending. I am imperfect.
You know the most ironic thing about all of this?
There’s only one who expects me to be perfect. (That voice in my head I listen to.) Me!!
I have succumbed to the truth that while there will be perfect times in my life (thank you, Lord!), I nor anyone else will ever be perfect in life.
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