Confessions of...a normal mommy

I am not a fan of Oprah Winfrey. She really gets on my nerves. (And honestly, I think she likes herself enough for the both of us, so it's okay.)

However, yesterday she did a great show that talked about the other side of motherhood.

You know, the side no one tells you about. The side where even though you knew it would be about sacrifice, you didn't realize how all-consuming this was going to be. The side where a little piece of you can understand how some mommies just "snap," getting in the car and driving away and never coming back. The side where you love being a Mommy but don't love "doing" it.

Yeah - it was about that.

You know, we mommies tend to beat ourselves up on a daily - if not hourly - basis. We have visions in our heads of clean homes with gourmet meals; sparkling, well-behaved kids; and ourselves in shape, looking good and feeling fulfilled.

Prior to becoming mommies, we held down good jobs with lots of responsibilities. We were detail-oriented. We had good work ethics. We were multitaskers. We met our deadlines. We were respected by our peers.

Surely, these same skills would carry over into motherhood, right?

I realized my first week home from the hospital with Jack that this was not the case.

Actually, that's not true. What I started feeling that first week was that I was failing at motherhood. Or rather "Motherhood," as I defined it (see above - the part about the gourmet meals and feeling fulfilled).

What I had was a child who cried for what seemed like five months straight and slept no more than one hour at a time. I was lucky if I showered a few times a week. I lived in a new neighborhood with no friends, it was winter time, and there were days when I imagined that getting hit by a bus might feel better than I was feeling.

If this was motherhood, I hated it.

Two and a half years (and another child) later, I'm just now realizing that my definition of Motherhood is just not realistic. I'm realizing that I'm being crushed under the weight of my own expectations for myself.

I've been a perfectionist all my life, but I've only just understood that motherhood and perfectionism do not mix. Don't believe me? Try to plan something - anything - with children. It doesn't matter how small or large a plan it is - potty training, getting to the bank by 10 a.m., taking a walk, having a play date with a neighbor, taking a few Easter pictures - it will rain, or someone will nap longer than you thought, or give you a hard time getting dressed, or be sick, or have a poopy diaper as you're walking out the door. There are too many variables, too many things over which I have no control. I've been trying to control them, though, and driving myself and my family crazy in the process.

See, perfectionism isn't about being perfect. I knew that, but now I understand that it is about is being hypercritical and judgmental, of myself and of the people around me. It's setting myself up to fail over and over again and then wondering why I'm miserable.

So now, in front of God and everyone, I can say my name is Eileen T. and I'm a recovering perfectionist.

I'm a normal mommy, and I'm doing a pretty good job.

I feel better already.