I am a perfectionist, though sometimes it doesn’t look like it. If you were to walk through my front door right now (that is, if I were to allow you to walk through my front door right now) you would see, among (many) other things, a large pile of unopened mail, a laundry basket full of unfolded towels, dried leaves, shoes (some with a match, and some single), a bunch of musical scores, a plastic slide whistle, several backpacks, DVD cases with no DVDs in them, DVDs with no cases…you get it. I don’t want to mention the dirt, because that’s embarrassing, and I don’t need to mention the toys because OBVIOUSLY.
In a freakish way, this disaster can be seen as evidence of what I like to call “Enemy Perfectionism.” Sometimes, if I can’t do a perfect job of something (or a job that is near-enough to perfect that I am satisfied), I won’t do it at all. “Perfect” becomes the enemy of “good enough.” Unless I’m going to carve out an entire weekend, or pull an all-nighter, my entire house won’t get cleaned in one shot. Or, my entire house will get cleaned, but in the shoddiest way possible.
I need to remind myself, often, that Good Enough is way better than Not At All (if those are my only two options). I demonstrate Enemy Perfectionism with my blogging, as well. (I’ve alluded to this before). Until I have a knockout post, I refrain from posting anything at all. But if it’s been too long, I have to accept that I just need to post something sort of lame.
So here it is. I’ll include some pictures, to combat overwhelming lameness.
Thursday, I took the girls down to St. Olaf, just to walk around and spend money on unnecessary clothing at the bookstore. I enjoy seeing my girls at St. Olaf, and I enjoy seeing the students’ reactions to my girls at St. Olaf. (Let’s face it, when you’re living in a college bubble, the only thing more squeal-inducing than seeing a small child is seeing a puppy. And every mom loves to see other people thinking her kids are cute). Some pint-size Norwegian sweaters would’ve had more effect, but I’ll save that for next time. It was hot, anyway.
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| Celie in particular walked around like she was already a student. Class of '32, everyone. |
