Imperfect, Too

I see myself in her eyes, the child who WANTS-TO-GET-IT-RIGHT. The child who holds the spatula, just so, and waits, and tests the edges of the egg with her finger.

“Is it firm enough to flip?”  and I say, “wait another minute, Baby.”

“Oh no! I cracked the yoke, and it’s SUPPOSED TO BE RUNNY ON THE EGGS BENEDICT!”

It’s ok, it will taste good.

“But I NEED it to be PERFECT for HIM.”

I did too.

Always perfect. Trying so hard. Knowing, at some level, I was always loved. But not quite accepted.

Loved, but not enough.

Loved, but too much strength, too much will, too loud a voice.

If I made the egg, just right. If I just shut my yapper and used it to smile. Or if I seasoned the meat just so. If I was less like a girl. If I was more like a girl. If…

I wasn’t me.

You have TIME, I tell her. You have TIME to figure out how YOU like the eggs. Time to learn how to make them for others. Eggs that are cold can be microwaved.

Or thrown in the trash, because, lets face it, we are rich, and can make another one,

more perfect this time.

Child. Mama was perfect. Until she wasn’t.

So while I rip apart the things of perfection, Baby, watch me be imperfect.

Baby, you be imperfect, too.