My kid thinks I am perfect. Seriously. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, her 8 year old self, with her freckled nose and sparkly grin, thinks I am perfect.
It’s kind of a burden of parenthood, facing these little souls that wake up every morning believing the best. She knows nothing of my wealth or personal failures. She doesn’t care about my lack of cooking skills. She is unaware of bleach stains on dark t-shirts, poor nutritional choices, BMI train wrecks, or housekeeping shortcomings.
I asked her how she overlooked my faults once. I only asked once because her answer was so confident and sure: “God worked really hard to create you. He is so proud of you, Mommy! You are perfect!”
My child is wise. Wise in ways I am not. Her answer, in my belief system, can’t be disputed or debated. More importantly, it is how she sees HERSELF, too. That belief will protect her, I hope, from ever feeling inadequate or hopeless.
It feels good to be me today because I know now that I am perfect in my daughter’s eyes, and I try hard every day to be as perfect as I can be in spite of myself.