Perfection and Procrastination

When Brody was about 2 months old Kel called me from work and from what little I could decipher from his “word salad” (a term that we lovingly used to refer to patients who jumbled all of their words while deep in a psychotic episode OR after suffering a stroke), he had a headache, his face was numb, and he was laying of the floor of his shop at work. 

Knowing that he wasn't suffering from psychosis, I panicked.  I grabbed my tiny baby and tried to hold back the tears as my inexperienced, new mom fingers fumbled with the clips of his car seat.

I drove across town as fast as I dared only to find my tough as nails husband laying on the cold concrete in the dark of what would easily be described as a two car garage.

His ability to coherently communicate had not improved, half of his face appeared limp, and his arm on that same side was not functioning as it should. My fear deepened into a hard knot in my stomach as I recalled standing in a hospital room, only weeks before, looking down at Kel's sweet Grandpa Wayne who had suffered a stroke.  The face in my memory somehow seemed to meld into to the once strong, now drooping, face of the love of my life.  

I helped him into my car and started toward the hospital. He begged me to take him home and a for a moment I complied. A mile later filled with completely jumbled, incoherent sentences I turned around again.  We arrived in the ER and were taken to a room. Once there, with my tiny baby in tow, I realized that his diaper was soiled beyond his ability to tolerate it. As I looked down, still feeling waves of shock and panic, I realized that my diaper bag had not made the priority list while I scrambled to leave the house.  The defeat and fear seemed to simultaneously close in.  My baby was screaming. My husband was not even able to to put three meaningful words together. The breath felt heavy in my chest as I forced myself to suck oxygen into my lungs while bouncing and rocking my shrieking baby.

A sweet nurse entered our room, turned to me with a kind smile, and must have seen the despair in my eyes.  She asked what she could do for us and I hung my head as I told her the situation.  She checked Kel, gave me a compassionate glance and stepped out. 

Returning only minutes later with hands full. Diapers (in the correct size). Wipes. And, and adorable, cozy, fleece blanket. It melted me. What composure I had evaporated. Tears filled my eyes.

Four hours, a CAT scan, IV fluids, and multiple tests later, we walked out of the ER with a diagnosis of severe migraine and that cozy green dinosaur blanket.

It quickly became Bubba's favorite.

He spent most of his first year encompassed in its comforting green folds.

Rarely did we go anywhere without "dino blanky."

I became a steadfast part of our life, routine, and adventures.

One day as I browsed Walmart, I found the same exact fabric and felt impressed to purchase some just in case we ever needed to replace our beloved blanket.

The funny thing about "dino blanky" was that it is more than a functional, cute accessory.  It is a reminder of our blessings, of the things we have to be grateful for, of yet another miracle in our lives.
By the time Peanut was born, "dino blanky" was looking pretty rough and ended up finding a home at the bottom of our blanket basket, partially forgotten.

I'm sure you are all wondering what any of this has to do with perfection and procrastination.  Well, I'm finally getting there.

I began my Christmas preparations this fall and stumbled onto the fabric I had purchased months before. All of those emotions rushed over me like the crashing tide. I wanted to make Bubba a new Dino blanky that could become a fresh source of comfort for him and reminder of the tender mercies of my Heavenly Father to me.

I folded it and put it on my desk.  Over the next weeks and even months I busied myself with Christmas preparations while the fabric sat on the desk.  I shopped. I ordered gifts online.  I checked things off of my list of "to do's."  The weeks flew by........and the fabric sat on my desk.

After Thanksgiving I did finally take the fabric from it's place in our office and into Joann's to find a backing for my neglected project. I bought a second piece of thick, inviting fleece and returned to bag to my desk.  More days ticked by.  More days passed as I avoided the fluffy sack. More check marks filled my Christmas lists.  I did research ways to bind fleece blankets and found a self binding option that I thought would be the perfect way to transform this soft fabric into the meaningful gift I had envisioned. But- it intimidated me- so on the desk it continued to sit.

I've mentioned my perfectionism and my fear of failure and the perfect result of that combination is, you guessed it, procrastination!  I am the QUEEN of procrastination and it directly stems from my fear of failure.

I tend to allow my insecurities about my abilities to dictate my actions. Sometimes that means not trying at all, sometimes that means only putting in a partial effort, and sometimes, when the task is unavoidable or extremely important, it means putting it off until the very last second.

This project is a prime example, but is only one example out of trillions that occur for me on a yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, or hourly basis.

My time was running out.  Sunday afternoon (as in December 21st) I finally pulled out the fabric and trimmed of the salvage.  I had planned to work on it and hopefully finish it once the kids were asleep.

Enter round two of the stomach flu.  Brody started throwing up around 7pm, I started around 3 am and Kel joined the club just after 7am Monday morning.

Panic! We were supposed to leave for Idaho for Christmas on Tuesday evening.  I still had a long list of things to accomplish before we could leave and I could barely drag my aching body up the stairs (I actually made it up, but passed out at the top- so I'd say I was doing pretty well).

Minutes were disintegrating and a hallowing, dark sadness settled over me.  My explosive excitement for Christmas was being crushed and I had visions of a repeat of Thanksgiving (Bubba was in the ER thanks to round 1 of the stomach flu and we ate pizza for dinner). I was seriously struggling just to keep my vomiting toddler and husband alive and my healthy toddler healthy without passing out on our goldfish littered carpet.

Thank goodness for incredible mothers.  Grandma came to the rescue Monday evening.  She cared for the sick, cuddled the sad, and comforted the emotionally and physically exhausted.

By Tuesday I was still not on the top of my game, but I was functional and Mom wrestled and entertained the rug rats while I packed, wrapped gifts, and then had no other choice but to face the unavoidable.

I started working on Bubba's blanket knowing that my time was incredibly limited.  I was forced to challenge every aspect of my deep seeded perfectionism and at times it was excruciating.  The stretch of the fabric made cutting and  making the fabric exactly square nearly impossible.  The differing fabric weights added additional challenges.  Pinning took forever. My sewing machine decided to go on the fritz. I had to pick out multiple seems.  I was attempting to make mitered corners for the first time ever and they did not turn out perfect. . but they turned out.  With each hurdle, it took everything I had to not throw in the towel, to not just give up.  Bubba wouldn't have known either way.  Blanket or no blanket, he would have still had plenty of gifts and would be the same, happy little boy on Christmas morning, but I forced those feelings back.  With every step, I moved forward, I challenged the degrading voice in my head and I kept at it.  I knew that a large contributor to my anxiety about this project was escalated by my procrastination, which was largely due to my fear and anxiety. It's a vicious cycle and I continue to allow myself to get sucked in despite knowing the outcome.

I could have given up and had my mom finish it.  She would have.  Her version would undoubtedly have been more perfect than my finished project ended up, but it wouldn't have been perfect, because perfection doesn't really exist, as much as we like to try to convince ourselves that it does.

I finished my last seem, trimmed all of the stray threads, and held up this tiny piece of our little family's history.  The edges weren't all exactly 2 inches and the corners didn't lay perfectly flat but for a moment those flaws faded into the background and I could see the beauty and meaning that may be imperceptible to the naked eye, but were vividly apparent to a mommy who had experienced the memories that the fabric portrayed.

In that moment, I knew that my gentle, sensitive, two year old would love the dinosaurs (he had seen the fabric in the months it sat on the desk and had looked at me with his penetrating brown eyes and told me that the fabric was "beautiful" and that he "loved it"), and that it was a perfectly imperfect representation of life experience, memory, growth, change, and rich blessings.

Is it silly that a chuck of woven fibers with a goofy cartoon print could represent all of that while also being a source of insight and enlightenment? Maybe.  But, I can tell you about the ear to ear grin on my adorable son's face when he tore away the wrapping paper this morning and the total absence of any thought about the uneven edges or wavering stitching as I observed his joy.

I can't promise that my procrastination will drastically improve any time soon but I am getting better at accepting imperfections and challenging my perfectionism. It is HARD! Extremely hard! I had a similar experience just a day ago when thinking about this blog.  I let the thought that because others seemed to be better writers or more successful than I am that that meant that once again I'm a failure fading into the gray area or mediocrity. Broken record, I know; but that is how Satan gets us, by playing on our greatest weaknesses and repeating the assault, over and over and over and over again.

The problem with being a perfectionist is that all you want is to be the best, amazing, envied at something, perfect, at even just one thing and even though you know deep down that it's impossible, something inside convinces you that if you were good enough, you could accomplish the impossible.

If only we could constantly see through an eternal lens rather than a temporal one. If only we could see the difference between the worlds definition of perfection and instead see our Fathers version of perfect.  He doesn't care how straight I can cut or sew a blanket. He doesn't care if hundreds of people think that I am a great writer.  He doesn't care if my hair looks flawless, what the measurement of the pull of gravity is on my body, or how many pinterest projects I have mastered.  I am perfect because he made my heart and soul. I am perfect because he placed the capacity for his perfect love to exist within me and because he gave me the opportunity to share it. . . and because he gave me those things, because he doesn't make mistakes, I have absolutely no reason to wait, no reason to procrastinate because that is one thing I will never fail at.

Fear and Failure

Can I just tell you how AMAZING this week has been!  It is mid December and we have consistently had gorgeous 50 plus degree days! Heaven I tell you, pure heaven.  I have been soaking up every second.

While this whole week has been unusually wonderful, today was breath taking.  I loaded up the kids and Bob and when I got to the trail head to unload, I was almost regretting my decision to wear a t shirt and wishing I had chosen a tank top- IN DECEMBER!! It was bliss.

As I started my jog, as usual, my mind kicked into overdrive and thoughts and ideas and insights flooded my brain faster than I could sort or organize them.  I actually love it. With a one year old and a two year old, having your own thoughts, private thoughts, are a rare novelty.  When I run, my babies sleep and my mind can finally think of something other than diapers to be changed, faces to be wiped, meals to be made, disasters to evade, and kisses to be given (don't get me wrong, I love every single one of those moments with my babies. I wouldn't change it for the world and I'm devastated to think of the days when it will end).  It's freedom. It's therapy. It's healing.

You would be amazed at the world problems (okay, maybe just the problems in my own little world) that can be solved in a 90 minute run.

It's during my runs that I often have my best ideas and frequently think of all the topics I would love to address here in this blog.  I can't count the number of blog posts that have been composed on my runs that never actually make it to the keyboard, but the process for me is still the same, whether the topics ever make it to print.

Today, my thoughts were overrun with some of my fears (Crazy right? Me worry? Ha!).  I have been thinking a lot about this blog and it's direction.  I have so many dreams and aspirations and have some confidence in some of what I would perceive as my talents; however, I am afraid. . . . completely and utterly afraid of failure.  I honestly always have been.  When I look back at nearly everything I have done, I can see some point in which my fear of failure has held me back.

As I listened to my feet hitting the pavement, pushing nearly 90 lbs of baby and stroller and packing a 10 lb weight vest, I felt discouraged that I wasn't faster.  That I didn't have any medals on my wall as proof of the thousands upon thousands of miles I have run in the past 12 years.  Nothing to show for it.  I tell people all the time that I am not competitive. I'm not. I'm not because I'm afraid to put everything I have into anything for fear that I will fail and that that will ultimately mean I am a failure. It is an overriding theme in my life.  I see other women around me doing amazing things.  Things I wish I could do.  Things I really think I could do.  But all too often I don't even try.  I let the fear win. I have always been mediocre.  Occasionally above average.

In some arenas, I think that it's okay.  In order to accomplish some of the things that I aspire to, I would have to make sacrifices.  Major sacrifices.  Sacrifices of time and at this moment, that time is too precious.  Those little noses to be wiped, hands to be held, scraped knees to be kissed are worth far more than the personal accolades I could be acquiring.

As with all things in this life, there is a balance to be struck. We have to continually challenge our fears, push them back, dig deep to find the confidence to prove them wrong while also knowing our own boundaries and appreciating that those boundaries will shift as our lives progress.

Today I decided, as a warm December breeze rejuvenated my spirit, that I don't have to settle for mediocre or just above average in everything.  Somethings, for now, yes, but not everything. I can be exceptional at a couple things but I have to challenge my fear of failure (something I'm not at all comfortable with or good at).  It's true, I might fail (and as much as I wish that wasn't one of my top 5 greatest fears, it is) but I owe it to myself to take a few risks, so I'm going to try.

This blog started as one of those aspirations. I thought maybe I could be an exceptional writer and I could change peoples lives and have thousands of people enthrallment by my prose.  Then I started to convince myself that no one would care. That I wasn't good enough. And I almost quit.

Today, I'm not quitting! Do I think that I'm amazing and that I'll be some famous blogger? Sadly, No. I do think that I may be able to make a difference to someone, even if it is just me.  I also am finding that I can be great at being who I am.  I am completely imperfect, but I am also beyond blessed.  I'm striving for balance and when I take a moment to look at my crazy little life, I'm truly living my dreams. My goals will come. Some will take time and patience and courage. . . .hope, and faith, but I will not give up.

"Fear knocked at the door,
Faith answered,
And no one was there."