It was a morning straight out of my nightmares: Fourth grade, and I arrived at school to see all my classmates carrying posterboards or shoeboxes. Adrenaline shot through me and landed in a pit of dread at the bottom of my stomach. That nutrition project: I had forgotten all about it. My hands suddenly felt extraordinarily empty.
I turned in the project the next day, and when my teacher returned it, the bright red “B” glared at me. Even worse, she had scrawled the mark of shame across the top: “LATE.” She might as well have written “FAILURE.” The mortification seared itself into my memory.
I berated myself for this lapse in responsibility. How could I have been so stupid? I prided myself on being an excellent student, and excellent students didn’t forget to do projects.
There is more than one kind of perfectionist in this world. Some want everything done perfectly; others, like me, want it done right. For this reason, I loved report cards. In tangible form, there was a black-and-white evaluation of how I measured up. I knew exactly where I stood.
Later seasons of life didn’t afford me such clarity. How could I know, really know, that I was parenting right? And when differing opinions on schooling or discipline gave me different definitions of what was right, this caused me great consternation. Please, someone, tell me the right thing to do, and I’ll do it.
Without an objective evaluation, I made myself my own mental report card. I will pack my children a healthy lunch every day. I will wash the towels on Mondays. I will water the houseplants on Sundays. I will schedule dentist appointments for everyone every six months. I am a success if I do these things; I am a failure if I don’t.