The insidious consequences of my mom's perfection

I've always looked up to my mother. Is it a bad thing? I believe not, I think a good parent, just as a good professor or a good boss, is someone who is admired while being respected -and maybe a bit dreaded.


My mom lost hers when she was barely more than a toddler, had to move away from her beloved home town for some time, and then get on with the tumultuous Paris town center, while her step-mother never stood against her father's violence. During her twenties, her pregnancy gave her a son she had to raise in a caravan and met my father, who had no idea how to handle this little, screaming creature that was my brother. And yet she did it, she raised two kids in the most patient and wonderful motherhood. She had a job, keeping her independance as a woman, but never missed any important event in our lives. She taught me to love literature, to be curious about everything and not to be narrow-minded. 

My mother and I, 1993

But doesn't this apparent perfection come with a downside? As far as I'm concerned, it did. The fact that she's been through a lot caused my mom to be waiting for a lot from people she meets. And, as the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I've inherited -and, I'm afraid, developed- her sharp eye concerning everyone's behaviour and mistakes, which could be mistaken for intolerance, but is really a surplus of attention given to details and significations. I wouldn't be so shocked if someone marked me as a bit of a snob, even though it is far from being intentional. I tend to conveniently forget all the mistakes I made myself, when it comes to lay an opinion on others' ones. Which makes me, and here's one thing I didn't get from my mom, not really good with children, whom I struggle to consider as such, and not as very annoying adults.

"But doesn't this apparent perfection

 come with a downside?"

Though, to be totally fair, what could be called my "lack of empathy" is not only targeted at other people. It also hits me sometimes, more than I'd like to admit. My actions, choices, behaviour, are constantly put into question by this obnoxious little voice that oddly sounds like Sigourney Weaver, don't ask me why. This fear of not being good enough in what I do is the reason for the shyness and discretion that I've considered as a curse since I was old enough to understand it.
And yet, growing up, I realize that it is probably better to expect a lot and be truly proud when expectations are reached, than to watch life go by without trying to make it better in any way. I will probably never blame my mother for this character trait of mine, as the poisoned part of this chalice was unconsciously given, and because, even though we are both equally difficult to content, we've never disappointed each other. 

Noreen Ropers.