The Hardest Part

I don’t want to believe I am a perfectionist. But what other name would one call it when I tell my blind husband that I really don’t want his help with the dishes because I will just have to redo them.  I know I hurt his feelings once again.

The right thing to do would have been to allow him the joy of helping me. Yet, I knew it would take me longer to clean up after him than if I just did the job from the start.

I didn’t want to hurt him. I know he wants to feel like he is helping, but the reality is, he doesn’t help me in the kitchen.

Maybe my expectations are the barrier. Maybe my standards are just too high.

Maybe I don’t have the patience I need to just let him do his thing and then clean it up later.

I want to do the loving thing.

But that means I have to sacrifice myself again.

Why is that so hard?

This was a weak area in my parenting skills when my children were younger as well. I knew I should let them try, but I just couldn’t stand the mess.

I love to bake, and I wanted to share that love with my kids, but when I would let them pour, and it went on the floor, I would just take over. I did not give my children the joy of working in the kitchen. I left them with a bad taste in their mouth instead. The message I gave them was that baking is messy and clean up is more important than the joy of creating.  I gave them no gift there, even though in my heart, I knew I wanted to.

Here I am again. Same spot. Same dilemma.

I have to let it go, but that means letting go of part of me too.

That is the hardest part of all.