If you ask everyone on their deathbeds about their regrets, you will hear the predictable whining:

I wish I hadn't worked so much and spent time with my family.

I wish I hadn't put my education ahead of my life experiences.

I wish I had put all my loved ones ahead of money, ambition, etc.

I wish I had listened to my loved ones.

The truth is, the ones who die with family and loved ones around their deathbeds are the ones who don't regret anything, for they obviously didn't put work, education, ambition, etc., ahead of their loved ones. And they listened when loved ones advised them on mid-course corrections.

Their loved ones had been with them the whole time...

...all the way to the very end. That's a life without regrets.

Do you want to count your money on your deathbed? Your sexual conquests? Your Rolexes? All those whom you bested? No, the only thing you want to count are the ones who wanted to be with you at the very end.

We should teach our children to live lives that make life worth living. That means incorporating the human factor into every relationship, every decision, and every journey. It means goodness doesn't have to profit us tangibly because goodness is its own reward.

Dying peacefully, alone, is not peaceful dying. Dying mattering to the ones you love is a great way to go. We should teach our children that the end justifies the means.

Too much pressure, and the cycle of self-realization can become oblong; like in distorted vision, where the eyeball is incorrectly refracting as an Oval, instead of a sphere. It is suggested that Perfectionism is a character trait that runs in families (as a cross generational thing, inherent rather than taught), but undoubtedly reinforced on sight (and accordingly, on repetition!). It is associated with higher- level-thought, paired with lower-level self-esteem.

I am struck by the title "Promethazine in a Baby Bottle," as the umbrella set over the question, "do we teach our children to pursue perfection, or just do their best?"

Promethazine as I understand is a sedative... the intent presumably to placate the babe into a soporific state, in which anything goes-- an attitude of "whatever" so popular among the, dare-I-say, Non-perfecting!?!

Lastly, since when is doing-your-best a goal post? It isn't. A person doesn't know where to aim at such a subjective future apparition of self worth. A few well defined objective metrics are essential to guide in taking concrete strides towards competition of any goal. By all means, these should be incremental if a person is to advance on sure footing. Indeed, I recommend baby steps.

The core definition of Perfection is "to make complete;" and Life, in its end, will take care of each of us in this respect.

Perfection is what the beholder considers it to be. What one considers perfection, another considers imperfection.

As humans we cannot be perfect in any way because we are flawed.

Therefore, be frank with your children from an early age, let them understand that we all make mistakes and that is part of learning. Show them it’s ok to strive for perfection but that it’s also ok when we fail because that is part of the process.

Hard work and effort always pays off and gets you closer to your goals. That’s what will make the difference, your time and your effort and your energy make all the difference in reaching the goal.

Giving children confidence and understanding with guidance will help them achieve their goals.

Born behind a shadow,

abandoned.

A second option for those—

who could not have

their own.

Pushing past limits

to fill a hole not meant for me.

To be the perfect one,

yet deep down

alone

Do this, do that,

and don't disappoint.

The bar set high over

a pile

of bone

Broken from falling,

each time I miss

or slip.

Who cares?

Jump again,

but the only way

is down.

This is who I am,

who I was raised to be.

Don't ask

me to change.

Unrealistic is not motivating

or inspiring,

yet it brings results

if you ignore your life

of groan.

we got this construction toy for sophia. a set of tubes and nodes, that you put together. the tubes are bendable, but rigid enough to build things.

there are no plans, there are no blueprints. just a picture of a buy who's supposedly made a stegosaurus. the saurid is taller by far than the boy. but i let my suspicion that he got help fall. let it be true.

my girl does not want to do the work herself if daddy is around. and so im enlisted in the project. by enlisted, that is to say that the task falls primarily on me. she stands and hands me the sticks, with her contribution being that the small, plastic node piece, she puts on one one end of the tube, to make the work faster. after a while, i see she loses interest and goes to make plastic sandwiches for the monkeys and bears.

i ask her if she wants to keep going with the project and she says yes. and so, i continue to plod along by myself, there were cutbacks in the construction staff, but we'll try to make the deadline. i call her up when the legs are done, she cones looks and goes, then when the body is conplete,...by the time 'we' finish the head, which stands much taller than her, and im holing is very cool to see, she doesnt bother. the toy nation is occupied with other issues.

its then that i realize that i was building this thing for me. much, much too late.

she does not care any more.

i worry constantly about being a parent. i know of the loose encironment i developed in. it had benefits, but also many many faults. i have no self control, no discipline, and very little in the way of acheivment. i see the little monsters i teach are even more brattish. clearly, discipkine is not an act of hate, but an act of love. to mold the clay is nobler than to let it just take the imprint of the gaps between the floortiles. but i know that i am already not molding as much as i could. there is just not enougg time. and tbe time i get with her, i spoil and cuddle. i just cant do otherwise.

and yet..

later this evenibg, she stole an old summer dress from the closet. at first i tried to tell her to not make a mess, but then she started doing the buttons. it was hard for her, with her small fingers, to push the thing through the eyelet. but my girl didnt give up, and in the end was wearing the ridiculous steawberry dress around, to show off to the menagerie. and so she acheived something i struggle with on her own.

Perfection may sound lovely

But it's hard to maintain.

It may even be a hard

burden to bear, especially

for imperfect beings such as

ourselves, who by nature are imperfect in our actions,

thoughts, words and deeds.

To try to train a child

to be perfect, I feel,

would most definitely

end up disastrously...

with a frustrated child,

and a parent unable to give

to his or her child, support,

love, discipline, care and attention - what they really need.

I'd rather teach my child, or

any child to study hard and

just do the best he or she can do. I'd rather the child's mind healthy than for him or her to

be driven mad. Truth, I've seen and heard of many youth who

have chased the unattainable

lady perfection turn crazy

over the years.

Perfection causes all kinds of problems.

As a child I learned my temper was unacceptable,

a beast to be hidden away from, so

I banged and scratched my mother's bedroom door

and howled the frustration I couldn't understand,

my fingernail marks on the wood

a monument of my abandonment.

My two-year-old tantrums weren't the end of it.

My sense of injustice was sensitive

and I didn't know how to reconcile

myself with the world, so I lashed out

and slapped what I could not control—

the mortal sin of violence

rooting ever deeper

my shame.

I was told stop, stop, stop

but given no instructions and

I couldn't,

so every time I boiled over

I cried and hated myself

and broke myself in two—

the good part and the anger I cannot control.

So I controlled it.

I learned not to be bossy,

not to be selfish,

not to stand up for myself,

not to ask for what I needed;

it was safer to be silent.

As a teenager, I didn't see the problem with my perfectionism.

I clung to my high standards, the mast of a sinking ship

with a flag at the top proclaiming, "I'm a good person!"

I took pride in my effort and quietly resented

everyone who was free to not care quite so much.

But I see it now.

I see the anger and shame

and all the ways I learned to make myself small.

I feel it all over again every time I make the tiniest mistake

and it's enough to stop me from even trying;

safer to sit in depression and fear than risk

being locked out again.

Safer to lock out myself.

Safer to nitpick every thought and

never let it out of my mouth.

Everyone hid from my emotions, so

I learned to hide them from myself.

In messy reality, perfection is meaningless

and "doing your best" is easily misconstrued,

and I think what we really need is to be seen.

Witness my anger and my shame, and love me anyway.

When failure is met with love,

space is created to move forward.

I hope I can learn,

deep in my bones,

how worthy it is to try and fail;

how courageous to accept myself as I am;

how wonderful to sometimes let things be.

"I am enough" does not preclude growth;

without "I am enough,"

I exhausted myself

holding back half of myself

and had no energy left for moving forward.

from a young age i was advertised

using words i had not yet learned to pronounce,

the center of a hurricane that

whirled at a feverish pitch

i was trapped in the fervor

for academic excellence,

success, an intangible concept

that i did not yet have the coordination

to grasp.

like bundles of hay

the idea made me itch and burn

yet i reached for it anyway,

a tower built upon the letter A.

school made my nose run with possibility

and educators were running out of tissues

to wipe the mucus away.

like a baby

sucking promethazine

from a bottle

i was

far too young

to swallow compliments

but the pressure found its way inside me

like the books i carried on my back,

weighing me down

until the compliments

stopped coming.

but maybe this is

prometheus's gift:

like fire to the lowly,

sometimes allergy medicine must be

delivered upon unripe infants

to soothe their swelling egos

before they burst.

Perfection chokes out creativity, it enforces rigidity, and denies play and exploration; it creates the perfect breeding ground for sterility and dullness. As humans, especially children, we are natural explorers, don't snuff it out. We make mistakes and that gives us the opportunity to learn and grow and conceptualize the world and allows us to understand it on a more intimate level. Teaching children to pursue perfection will only cripple their ability to weather through difficulties not prescribed in controlled settings, eviscerate their self worth, and their ability to discern for themselves who and what they wish to become. The pursuit of perfection is corrosive, malignant, it slowly and inevitably eats away at one's physical and mental well-being and leaves the individual bereft and empty. Encourage children to do their best, but don't push for perfection, allow them to choose for themselves how they want to live their lives.

The question of which is better, perfection or trying one’s best, implies that perfection may be a worthwhile endeavor. What is perfection, but an attempt to achieve the impossible? Perfection, everlasting, would be a permanent state of the pure, but can such a state even exist? In a perfect world, I imagine perfection as emptiness. A world absolutely devoid of the unwanted, yes, but empty of life as a result. Perhaps, then, a mistake or a flaw is an opportunity for the vibrancy of life to flow into the void?

Without imperfection, where would there be the beauty of renewal—a commitment reaffirmed to remind us of what matters? Without imperfection, where would there dwell the humility of human growth? Without imperfection, where would the love of compassion and forgiveness live? It is through the cracks of the darkness, do we see the light of day. Without darkness, where would twilight end and dawn begin?

Perhaps it would be wise to see the good in imperfection—to embrace the world as made of constant change rather than abhor it as made of constant mistakes. It is not about reaching perfection that matters but rather how one embraces the imperfections in life. In this way, trying one’s best is the rightful path, not only because it is honoring effort, but rather, through implication, it is also leaving space for the beauty of our own limitations.