The Pain of a Perfect Whale

Dear Marin,

I volunteered at your preschool this morning. I loved being there with you, watching you play so happily with your friends, listening to you provide answers to the questions your teachers asked, pushing you on the swing; you are growing away from my baby girl and into a divine five year old. The joy in your laughter, the deep pitch of your voice, even your cry - these are sounds that are part of my heart. You are smart, perceptive, clever, the funniest person I have ever known, fun, joyful, cryptic, and beautiful. With the exception of when your finger is up your nose, I am proud of you each time I look upon you. And still, even then, even as I correct you, I am proud.

Right now, my Marin, my heart aches for you, for I am seeing the pain you are going through and as your mommy, I would fix it for you this minute if I could. Looking ahead at how this will impact you, I am worried and I just want you to know right now, today, March 26th, that I think you are just right and nothing will ever change that. In about 10 years, if you are still pressuring yourself as you do today, please hold that close to you.

Today, you were given the task of cutting out two large whales that had been drawn from a template. There were a lot of curves, a lot of detail work, and when I saw what your challenge was, I braced myself, remembering the star incident. The whales, I feared, would be a repeat of the stars, or lower case letters, or hammering out Twinkle Twinkle on the keyboard, or any task for which you had an example of how something should turn out.

But before the whales, let's remember the stars... on that particular day, I waited at the door to pick you up from preschool and your teacher, Mrs. Lewis, asked me to wait until everyone had gone. Once the room was empty, she said "We had a problem today, again." And she got crocodile tears in her eyes and handed me a pile full of construction paper stars waiting for a small hand to cut them loose. You had finished two, with 10 more to go. "Marin had a hard time doing these, and she became so upset that we thought it better to just send them home so that you can hug her through this." I understood. I know the pressure you put on yourself to do everything with perfect precision and I know what an incredible scene it can be, and I know why Mrs. Lewis spared the other children in the room from witnessing such behavior. So I took the stars home, waited a day, and while Dad made dinner one Saturday evening, you and I sat at the counter and began to talk about cutting out 10 stars. You tried the first one, chubby hands shaking, and got through the first line, but when it came time to turn the corner, you refused to try. I rubbed your back and reminded you that "we don't quit, we always try", "you don't have to be perfect, you just have to try", but that just got me verbally assaulted. I continued reassuring you, and ten minutes later you attempted the corner, but missed the template line just a bit and threw the star and the scissors into the air, and slammed your face into the countertop. Hiding your head in your arms, you sobbed that you could. not. do. it. and your crying changed into hysterics. I picked up your trembling hand, put the scissors into them, and said "just try." 30 minutes later, gasping for air, grunting with each slice of the scissors, hiccuping, coughing, horrible things running from your eyes and nose and unable to speak, you produced one perfect star. And I mean perfect. It was better than any star I've ever cut out - or have any desire to cut out - and you set it aside with disdain. The next nine stars we divided over two more days, and each one took a little less time, but darn it, you did it, filled with self-deprication the entire way, but you never gave up. Each one looked like an adult had done it, but you were dissatisfied.

Learning your phone number and address was equally excruciating. You wanted to be able to write them and say them, and through the screaming, pen throwing, and gurgling, you refused to quit to even take a break. Your dad and I asked you to go play for a while, but you sat at that counter forcing your mind to memorize each letter and number until you made no mistakes. At the end, your face was swollen and blotchy red, the pen once held captive and tortured now nothing but a fallen soldier, but you knew your stuff and only then could you resume your interest in your toys.

Today, the whales were same story, 100th verse. You were fine until you got to the tail that had a dip and a curve in it, and then you melted into self loathing, filling the room with screams and grunts and pants of "I can't, Mommy! I can't!" Every single child had finished two whales and you were not half way through your first. Your friend, Sophia, sat by you and said "Marin, I made jagged edges and it's ok. I still like my whale." You wailed back at her "I DON'T LIKE JAGGED EDGES" and continuted grunting and cutting. It sounded like you were giving birth and it was taking just about as long. There is no sound that rakes my heart more than your guttural grunts; it is the sound of your heart breaking. The other kids were listening, staring, your teachers had to turn away to hide their tears, and I... my heart was breaking over and over again watching you torment yourself like that.

Marin, to me, you are the most perfect creation in the entire universe. I love you so much and count every single day that you have been in my life as the most incredible gift. To see my little girl casting so much anguish upon herself by needing her work to be perfect is so painful. Your friends turn out ridiculous versions of whales and stars and they are thrilled with their work and go on about their lives; you cannot accept anything less than perfect and you replay how "it should have been" over and over again. I pray that I find a way to help you cope with this part of your personality, but my fear is that you will always berate yourself when you can't make something align with the picture of perfection in your head.

Please know, Marin, that you may always bring home a sloppy whale to me and I will still hang it on my wall and love that your little hands created it. Please don't let attaining perfection be the thing that eats you up... you are far too amazing for that. My hope for you is that tomorrow you can cut out a terrible picture and hand it to me smiling. Too much to hope for, maybe, but I'll keep hoping. We don't give up, after all, we keep trying.

I love you, little Marin...