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I always thought my mom was perfect and I aspired to be just like her. She kept a spotless house, always cooked family dinners in the evening, got “dressed up” even when she didn’t leave the house, and could sew anything.

Growing up I would always measure myself compared to my perception of my mother. I would push myself to do more or to be “better.” I beat myself up over my shortcomings. There is dust on my furniture and I sometimes order takeout instead of cooking. I feel guilty if I feed Ethan store-bought baby food instead of making it myself. I cried over the fact that I was only able to pump breast milk until Ethan was eight weeks old before switching to formula. I even thought that with any future children I may skip trying to breastfeed at all — before feeling like I should at least try.

It took me actually being a parent to realize that there is no perfect when it comes to parenting.

Now that Ethan is a year old, he shows no ill effects from drinking formula. He is healthy even though he ate Gerber baby food.

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My house may never be as clean as my mother’s house, I may not cook very well, and I may wear yoga pants if I am not planning on leaving the house. What I do know is that my son is healthy, happy, and extraordinarily loved. Of course, I will probably continue to wish my house was as clean and organized as my mom’s, but when I am playing with my son, that doesn’t really matter.

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