Perfection is Overrated

A year has passed since my youngest child’s birth, and for the most part, I’m OK with my post-baby body. Except for my belly. For whatever reason, no matter what I do, it won’t go back to the way it was. I guess it never will. I can’t help but be a little self-conscious about it. And of course, as fate (or fat) would have it, that is the part that my oldest son, now 3, seems to be obsessed patting, poking and rubbing.

Sometimes, our kids can’t help but be good at pointing out exactly those things that we wished they wouldn’t. Such as my belly. Or the time I had a huge zit on my cheek. For the longest time, several times a day, my son would say, “What’s that?” And then we’d have a long discussion about mommy’s zit, why it was there, when it would go away, etc., etc. Good times.

Another example (the list could go on and on): My son put on my glasses the other day. When I asked him to give them back, he said, “No, mommy, I want to walk down the stairs.” I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about, until it hit me: My eyesight is so horribly bad that when he put on my glasses, the ground dipped before him as if he were walking down a flight of stairs.

While my son’s affinity for pointing out my flaws is sometimes a bit frustrating, it’s also a good reminder to me that I am more than the sum of my imperfections. Because after all, my son still loves me, despite my belly, bad skin and terrible eyes. To him, they’re just interesting facets of who I am. They don’t define me. When he throws his arms around me and hugs me, I know that he loves me for exactly who I am, “flaws” and all.


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