It’s OK if you’re not ‘perfect’ during a pandemic. Here’s what my mom taught me.

As deaths from coronavirus continue to rise, taking siege particularly on nursing homes, I’m glad my mom isn’t alive, as odd as that sounds. At the same time, I miss her desperately.

She would have had advice and perspective about this pandemic — about how to mother during it. How to work. How to act.

My mom was my very favorite person on the planet. She died in 2015 after a brutal fight with both esophageal cancer and respiratory issues.

Three weeks into a 6-week “stay home” order, I was feeling so lost I decided to go back home — just a few miles away — to explore the near-deserted trails of the neighborhood I grew up in. Maybe time would simply swallow me up and take me back.

I could almost hear my mother say, “It won’t be the same.”

She was right, of course.

The house I’d lived in, sold shortly before my parents ended their 47-year marriage, had fallen into disrepair. Indeed, both my parents had been alive the last time I’d walked the trails.

But as I walked, I began to remember the smallest things about my mom. Things that made me smile and laugh. I’ve long carried a torch for my mom, but it struck me for the first time: she hadn’t really been “perfect.” At least not in ways we moms expect it of ourselves today.

She’d hated to cook. She’d never volunteered at my school. She believed largely in permissive parenting, which many of my friends’ parents thought was irresponsible. She didn’t micromanage me or help me problem-solve, something I do constantly with my teenage son.

She’d listen intently and then say, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

I was the youngest of four kids, by many years, and my mom started her career at age 41, when I was 4 years old, working long hours at a department store in the mall. She confessed to me later in her life that she’d started working because she was fearful she’d have nothing if her marriage ended.

My dad often traveled for work, and, when she couldn’t get a babysitter, she took me with her. I’d sit in the food court and read. If I didn’t have a book, she’d give me money, and I’d go to B. Dalton and buy one. I discovered “Super Fudge” and “Little Women” that way.

I loved the weight of the books in those flimsy bags.

When I was 16, and driving, she put me in charge of grocery shopping, which, who knows, is maybe why I hate it today. Her famous “to-do” lists greeted me every day of summer break. I often didn’t do the whole list. And when I saw how tired she was after work, I felt guilty. But not enough to change my partial-list ways. It shames me now when I remember — now that I’ve grown up and am a mom myself.

Lessons learned from mom

It’s true, going back home wasn’t the same, but I did learn something: I didn’t ever notice my mom’s lack of perfection. Or lack of anything, really. And I suspect our kids don’t either. They love us, and they love that we love them.

So if you’re not doing it all in the midst of a pandemic, or any other time, whatever that entails — working, cooking, cleaning, home-schooling and so on — it’s OK.

It’s OK if you aren’t orchestrating nature hikes and art projects. It’s okay if you yell. Or lose your patience. It’s okay if your kids see you cry. It’s okay to apologize. It’s okay to tell them you’re tired. Telling them will teach them how to tell you things, too.

That honesty will bring an easiness and acceptance; that was what I cherished about my mom — and what I will always miss about her. I loved being around her, and we never ran out of things to talk about.

As I got older, our relationship only blossomed. She helped me take care of my son so I could go to grad school while also working.

Over and over again, “It’s good to work hard.” When I doubted myself: “You have to try.” If I complained, “Are you learning something?” (Neither of my parents went to college).

And the best: “I’m so proud of you” and “You’re doing such a good job.” She was always loving and encouraging, her sentiments filled with confidence in me, and yet they always brought the task back to my plate.

What a neat trick.

I hope I finally redeemed myself of the shamefully neglected chore list. In the last two years of my mother’s life, we siblings pulled together to ensure she could stay at home — her greatest wish. We took turns with the doctor’s appointments, chemo sessions and countless ER visits that broke our hearts.

Her book club began to hold its meetings at her house. Bridge group followed. Her loving and compassionate nature attracted. Who she was to us, not what she did for us, was all the “perfection” we needed.

And it ended up being everything.

This story was originally published May 9, 2020 at 3:36 PM.