Imperfect
I remember the first time I was confronted with the idea that my mother wasn't perfect. That she could actually burn dinner, destroy a shirt in the laundry, buy the wrong replacement part, misremember an important fact, forget a date, or heavens-no, not know every answer to every question I had about life. I was disappointed when the cold reality hit. The woman who raised me, taught me how to walk, talk (and wished I would just be quiet sometimes), eat, think abstractly, appreciate the new-to-me, love boundlessly, forgive with understanding, accept that sometimes bad things happen to good people, help when and where I am able, invest in myself and in my future, the nuances of sarcasm, and to always say 'please' and 'thank you', is a human being with all of the faults that go with said distinction.
From day one of my knowing my mother she had the unspoken title of Deity. Even if I disagreed or disliked her actions and spoken words they were still the end all, the default, and often above my comprehension. Even when I did not heed her advice, her angelic presence was hovering over me, providing confidence. So to be confronted with the fact that she is 'only human', complete shock followed complete denial.
When I am lost in a situation, not sure what to do, scared, or overwhelmed, I always look to her. "What would mom do?" guides my thinking and actions. I figure that if mom does it then it's the best action and only good will come. She is my idol, my image of what perfection would look like if it took human form. I know that I will never fail if I follow in her footsteps.
Proudly I can say that denial and shock were momentary. I realized that because she isn't a deity it is possible to attain her level of class, dignity, integrity, compassion, understanding, and wisdom.
Therefore, if my mother is imperfect, imperfect is what I shall strive daily to be! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~