My cousin Elizabeth, who is a dear friend and fellow blogger, insisted that I write about this. So I blame her for the knot in my stomach.
About the blame, not the stomach.
As the name of my blog suggests, I am a perfectionist by nature but I try to fight that nature in order to be something that resembles healthy. I don't want to give in fully to that constant pull to strive for unattainable perfection. But when I'm not actively fighting against it, it pulls me in closer.
One by one, I've had to let go of things I once saw as "perfect." I'm not the perfect mom. I'm not the perfect housekeeper. I'm not the perfect chef or baker. My kids do not have perfect discipline records. Even my perfect grades in college are meaningless now.
Well, yesterday I had to let go of one more perfect thing: my perfect driving record.
I've had my license for 17 years (go ahead and do the math). I've never even been pulled over. No parking tickets. No fender benders. No red lights run or even an expired license plate tag. I've had a shiny, perfect driving record. And I felt proud of it. Which is probably why it needed to be pried from my kung fu grip.
Here's the kicker. Not only was I in a car accident yesterday, but I caused the accident. Embarrassed doesn't even begin to describe how I felt (feel). I was also so confused. I am such a careful driver that I'm baffled as to how this even happened. My dad says they're called "accidents" for a reason.
I won't bore you with the details, mostly because it still stings to recount them. The main points are: I didn't see a car, I hit said car, all parties involved were unharmed, I had Nora in the car with me, Nora was scared at first but then practiced handstands in the grass while I talked to the police officer, the other car had to be towed as a precaution but was basically driveable, my car is driveable but we are not to drive it until the insurance adjuster comes out. Oh, and I cried. A lot. The middle-aged male police officer wasn't quite sure what to do with a crying woman.
The accident happened while I was on my way to pick up our new dining chairs. I never got the chairs. That's a worry for a different day. I'll need to borrow a truck (and have someone else drive as I am not emotionally ready) or beg Pier 1 to hold them longer due to extenuating circumstances.
So today I'm nursing an exhausted body and a bruised ego. It's back to
life as usual with school, the last dance class before this weekend's
big recital, babysitting the two kids I care for everyday, taking care
of the house and laundry and meals, etc. Only it has to be done with
one car between Jared, me, and five kids. We're working it out.
I'm so grateful that no one was hurt, and I'm trusting God to make something out of the rest of the mess. And now that my secret is out, maybe it'll stop stinging so much.