It was a warm April day in 2017 when I heard a knock at the front door. It was my next-door-neighbor with all three of my triplets, buck naked.
“I found these guys dancing on my lawn,” he said with a laugh so hard he had tears in his eyes.
I turned a new shade of red. My neighbor, a grandfather himself who has raised boys, was in hysterics, but the perfectionist in me felt embarrassed, like a failure.
I’m such a bad mom, I thought. How could my kids sneak out of the house stark naked without me even noticing? They were down the street! They could have been kidnapped! The neighborhood must be ready to call Child Protective Services on me.
That level of always wanting to appear like I have my life together has plagued me since childhood. It’s something I have always battled as a Type A. And as anyone who is a Type A knows, that level of wanting to be in control of life can’t be changed—you’re born with it. You can only learn to manage it. It’s the reason I get up at 5:30 A.M. to shower every morning, so I can look presentable at preschool drop-off and people won’t know my head is spinning from my circus. It’s also the reason sometimes my kids are spritzed with body spray before school. I didn’t have the energy to bath them, and heaven forbid someone know I have nights where I throw in the towel and they go to bed with stamps and markers on their arms.
Whether it’s pulling their pants down in a very public place or knocking over an entire display of seasonal air fresheners while being ninjas, we draw attention wherever we go. Sometimes onlookers laugh along with us, and sometimes I get that look of pity, like the old woman who lived in a shoe and had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
It’s taken me a long time to fully embrace the idea that nothing is ever going to be perfect, and that laughter is truly what brings joy. The minute I stopped cringing and joined in on the laughs, I began to enjoy the parenting experience a whole lot more.
A year ago, my eye twitched as my boys hid in the milk fridge at Sam’s Club, banging on the doors like apes. Now, I just smile and ask them to pass the half and half.
And performing their “Booty Scooty” dance loudly while at the H-E-B checkout? It gets an applause, and sometimes I join in.
Being truthful with others and yourself, even when it makes you feel vulnerable, also makes you more relatable and can many times forge friendships and a sense of community. People don’t want to hear about how your child just can’t get enough of the organic kale cookies you bake that taste like barf. They don’t want or need perfect; they need real. And if their face looks shocked when you tell your stories of life, they’re not your people. Move on quickly, and find the ones who will laugh along with you when your kids make up a song about boobies while you attempt to buy a bra at Dillard’s.
Whenever I begin to slip back into my perfectionist ways, the universe throws me a funny curve ball to remind me that finding the humorous silver lining is what it’s all about.
“Mom, I just farted in church!” one of my triplets declared, in a crowded hallway, with a huge smile. “Do you think God smelled it?”
“Oh, sweet Tommy, I’m sure He did,” I reply. “And He’s probably laughing right along with us now.”
