One Near Perfect Thing

with Decco

There's this song called "If She Wants Me" by Belle & Sebastian and there's one line in the chorus that runs through my head frequently:

"If I could do just one near perfect thing I'd be happy."

I've been worrying lately that along with a tragically bad memory and the need to have my feet exposed while I sleep, I might also have inherited from my father a desire to do something out-of-the-ordinary big in my life, to leave something eyebrow-raising on my tombstone, something to read about in the papers. It's one of many characteristics of my father's gross and damning narcissism, the very same narcissism that led to his demise, and so you see why I would be worried.

I'm not talking about a healthy desire to do well, to be an influence for good in the world or to make a name for one's self. I'm talking about wanting in one way or another to get your name up in lights, to achieve fame or fortune, to conquer Everest and the world, while you're at it.

Anyway, in theory, I really do believe that the best life lived is a simple one. It's one of kindness, honesty and enduring well the day-to-day grind of life. My aunt Emily is a good example of this. All she's ever wanted to do is be a good wife and mother and she's thrown herself into doing exactly that, surrendering herself completely to loving and caring for her family. It's a simple desire, some would even say unambitious, but when done well, it's the most impressive.

I try really hard to make this enough for me too. Giving my all to raise my four children is the most ambitious, although unspectacular undertaking, anyone who's ever tried it knows that. All I have to do is rub my nose in Declan's fragrant neck, or hold Ada's pillowy soft hand, or read one of Eleanor's stories, or look in to Charlotte's bright blues to know that it should be enough, and sometimes it is, but there's always that "one near perfect thing" sitting on my shoulder or lurking behind the cereal box in the morning. Maybe it's just desperate youth, hanging on with its selfish energy and dreams.

And so I go back and forth in this great internal moral debate with myself. Maybe this desire is a good desire, there have been successful women with children after all, talents not to be wasted and the like. But maybe, like my Dad, it's just a fantasy I'm playing at with me at its central climax, an easy stroke for my ego, a grandiose, self-important bucket-list.

Some of the things I want to do are respectable and modest: write one perfect sentence, find and bake the perfect chocolate cake, graduate school. And then there are those castles in the clouds: write those novels, single-handily raise mental health awareness in schools and churches. Is this one of those cruel either/or scenarios? Would the castles distract me from the respectable? Can you have one foot in motherhood--I mean really in, like with your heart, might, mind and strength in-- and the other in personal pursuits without resenting the other? Can I do both? My father couldn't.

And so I continue worrying.