The perfect jar is like the swear jar, but better, because 1. It’s a fucking realistic challenge for me, and 2. Because it’s reinforcing the #1 lesson I want my daughters to learn and live – nothing is perfect. Perfect. Does. Not. Exist.
This all started back in 2020, not long after we moved here to MN. I remember it vividly – we were living in our rental, a cute little rambler with a tuck-under garage and the all-too-common split-level situation, which works quite nicely for us, actually. I was in the bathroom minding my own business and getting ready for the day when Eleanore wandered in. Sometimes I wish I’d worked on developing the habit of closing and locking doors behind me, but whatfuckingever at this point.
At any rate, Eleanore wanders in, makes herself comfortable, and watches as I continue to put myself together. Nothing fancy, mind you – scrub my face with a scratchy washcloth, moisturizemoisturizemoisturize, and then some mascara. When I’m mid-swipe on the second coat on my left eye, she says to me –
I want to be perfect like you one day, Mama.
And I froze. I fucking froze. And I’m standing there with a mascara wand stuck in my eyelashes and my mouth hanging open in that stupid way it does when I put mascara on, as if doing that helps me get it applied better, and I just fucking froze. Then my gut knotted up. And the tears started to well. And I had to hold my breath. And I looked at my little girl – so cute, so cute. Staring up at me in admiration. And no one ever looked at me that way before. And then all the thoughts started to race, and the feelings came. And I held it in.
Hold it in, Rach. Hold it in. Hold it in.
Then I smiled. Finished applying my second coat with intention because let’s be real – if the second coat dries before you’re finished putting it on, you’re fucked. It doesn’t go on well and it looks weird. I slid the wand back into its tube, twisted it closed, then turned to the side and knelt down on my right knee so I was eye-to-eye with my darling little first-born monster, and I whispered to her in the sweetest, most loving voice I could muster –
Don’t ever fucking say that again, baby, OK? There is nothing about me that is perfect. Perfect doesn’t exist.
But you are, Mommy.
No, baby – I am not. And you won’t be either. And that’s OK. That’s good. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
OK Mommy.
And then we moved on. But it became a rule in our house – we don’t use the word “perfect”. Perfect is a four-letter-word in our world. Fuck that word.
And why don’t we use it, girls?
Because PERFECT DOESN’T EXIST!
That’s right, ladies – perfect doesn’t exist. Now, more importantly – where should we go for wings & beers?
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Rachel Lewandowski