I had a really dysregulated moment last week.

The house was calm, and I decided to tackle a simple, should be DIY project around the house. I gathered all the necessary tools and supplies, and I was ready to conquer the mountain of inadequacy. I'm not a big fan of home reno projects, and I'm probably the worst person ever when it comes to power tool usage, but I had decided nothing was going to stop me.

Ha.Ha.Ha.

The drill bits, screws, and wall mounts were each neatly packed away and stored in this cute little plastic container packaged without a hint of direction. I pushed. I pulled. I pinched. I twisted. I took a break and walked away for a minute. I came back with a fueled determination to succeed. I tried every opening technique I could reason, all to no avail.

So I got mad. Really, really mad. And I slammed that cute little plastic case against the wall. My hands may be atrophied, but apparently I can lunge objects through the air like a boss, because the million pieces I wanted came leaping out of confinement and settled across my floor with a less than graceful tune.

I had won. Sort of.

The victory got lost somewhere in the translation of my uncanny ability to throw a fit that would outshine that of any toddler. The humility set in when the younger eyes and ears of the house came running in to inquire, "What just happened?!" The temptation to contrive a reasonable story with minimal truth plagued me. I wasn't exactly thrilled at the thought of explaining I had broken three of the six house rules in less than ten seconds, although I would have certainly benefitted from a time-out.

"Nea Nea got frustrated and made a bad choice. Now I have this really big mess to clean up."

"Oh, what did you do?"

Kids. Why do they always ask so many questions?

The moments passed, and I felt smaller and smaller with each tick of the clock. What kind of role model throws some stupid carrying case across the room in a fit of rage when the only possible outcome was a loud clanging burst of exposure?

Um...a real one, I guess.

I am not super mom. Or super aunt. Or super woman. And as much as I'd like to do it all right all of the time, I often fall short. It only took one simple hanging project to remind me of my frailty, and I felt bad about it for days.

Then I had a different thought.

Maybe my shortcomings are exactly what needs to be seen, heard, and dealt with right out in the open. Maybe instead of trying to encourage perfect behavior, I should instead be offering an authenticity that says, "I just made a mistake, and I'm sorry. Allow me a chance to fix it." And then I want to offer grace. A grace that doesn't dwell on resolved failure or carry around guilt for missing the mark. Grace that says, "It's okay to be human, and it's okay to love your less than perfect self."

I'm not advocating a butterfly and rainbow behavior acceptance method, and I'm not for dismissing connected correction. Instead, I'm for eliminating this imposed pressure to be perfect and the idea that self-loathing is the most righteous way to handle shortcomings and failures. I'm also learning that there's a lot to be said for how I handle my own heart. If I can effectively model a healthy self-love, I give everyone else around me (child or child at heart) permission to do the same. That sort of action puts stock in my promise to love them, "no matter what."

Love, grace, repentance, forgiveness, and truth. That's the message I want to send. Oh, and when to call a handyman won't be a bad tidbit to leave behind either.