My night shift coworkers had a conversation on Friday about perfectionism and the lack thereof amongst the staff at our in-hospital coffee shop. A coworker had returned to the floor with a group order that included an iced coffee clearly marked “hot” on the outside, which is the temperature at which it was desired.

“I want whatever they’re on,” one of my fellow nurses muttered.

“But it would probably prevent us from doing our jobs,” I lamented. We talked about how Good Enough is a nice idea but in nursing, Good Enough might mean death for one of your patients, so Perfectionism it is.

I don’t really mind being in a job where the margin of error is slim – there are times when it is stressful, of course, but it’s a good fit for my personality. Good Enough? Mmm, I don’t know if that’s a thing.

My coworker who wanted hot coffee wasn’t able to stomach an iced beverage. When I offered her dark chocolate-covered coffee beans, she had some and ended up loving them. The coffee beans also weren’t what she ordered, but they got the caffeine into her body in a palatable way, which makes them Good Enough, right?So maybe there is a Good Enough in nursing, but it has to be the Right Good Enough.

**************************************************

Last week, maybe for the first time, I heard Perfectionism described as a disease.

Usually, I think of it as an annoying personality quirk that won’t let me accept anything less than the very best, with the added feature of never being quite sure if I’ve achieved “very best.”Brene Brown says we’re all doing our best. That if we could be doing better with what we’ve got, we would be doing better. So whatever we are accomplishing, never mind what we hoped to achieve, we need to know that it is our best.

Perfectionism even calls into question physical abilities. The fatigue that accompanies my health issues saps my energy while my mind is still full of plans. Each day ends with so much left to do, both from my Lofty Goals List, but also from my There Is A Hole in the Kitchen Ceiling and Other Problems List. Perfectionism wants to know if I’m sure fatigue is why I didn’t meet my goals. I sat down this morning to write a post about yesterday. It was a really wonderful day, but the words just wouldn’t come. My writing didn’t flow. The photos from the day weren’t perfect. The lighting was too harsh, and people were being weird in every photo, as people do.

I started feeling annoyed because I needed to supervise the kids doing school, and I was writing badly and worrying about imperfection instead. It is a familiar, deeply rutted path.

I finally quit trying after the third uninspired draft, and did what schoolwork I could with the kids before I had to take one of them to an appointment. I came home again, we did a little more reading, and then it was time for a nap, because that is what my body demanded. I’m so tired of perfect as a standard.

Of course our logical minds recognize that Nothing Is Perfect, but that doesn’t stop many of us from continuing to strive for that goal, while continually being disappointed by the results.

We’ll have had Just Enough nearly perfect days to convince ourselves that perfection is possible. We have just our slimy ego saying that it doesn’t MATTER that yesterday was a Sunday and today is a Monday, with all the different responsibilities Mondays entail. Your brain still wants to torture you with the idea that if Perfect was possible one Sunday, Perfection is possible every day, when it just isn’t. But because I’m still working that out, I’m writing about Perfection rather than Mother’s Day.

I’ve seen a bit further up the path to where this stuff matters less. I’ll happily embrace that new reality when it gradually makes itself known. The neurotic attention to detail may never go away, but perhaps the inner flagellation at perceived mistakes and shortcomings will settle down a bit.

I hope whatever relationship you have to Mother’s Day, that yesterday was OK for you. If it was a tsunami of grief, sadness, or resentment, I’m there for that, too. Maybe some time this week, I’ll be able to articulate why yesterday was so nice in a way that stands up to my writing and photography standards and if so, I will share it. Either way, we’ll call this a success in the sense that I am holding up the standard of Perfection and eyeing it critically even if I’m unable to set it aside completely.

Can we talk about the costumes? The boys are all wearing versions of RH201 Elizabethan Seadogs, slashed and shrunk to their sizes. Their accessories and non-seadog bits are from a variety of time periods, and with this many fellow costumers, I just roll with whatever they show up in.

The girls are 18th century lasses. We didn’t worry too much about hair, because witch hats and head wraps. More details about all the kids’ costumes can be found here.

I’m wearing my Outlander Season One bodice and skirt over stays, leather mules from Samson Historical, a 17th c. coif with my new (!) 17th century shift/men’s shirt, with fantastic ruffles at the neck and wrists that are imperfect and perfect, all at once. The basket, Jah provided. I wanted a basket to use as a costuming accessory, couldn’t find what I wanted online, and submitted it to the Universe. This basket showed up in a neighbor’s trash. I cleaned it and oiled it. It is just what I was looking for.