Yikes!  I have less than nine months to reach perfection before this baby is born!  I silently panicked when holding my first positive pregnancy test.  Sure, I’d squirmed throughout childhood while adjusting to a broken home.  Naturally, I’d toiled through adolescence while mending a broken heart.  Yet, at age twenty two, I was hoping against hope that I’d reach perfection sometime soon.  I wanted to excel in patience, radiate joy, and stride through life’s challenges.  Instead, I was fretting with anxiety, spewing sarcasm, and shuffling through daily duties.

By New Year’s Day, 1999 – six months into pregnancy – I was still far from perfect.  Today, nine years and four children later, I continue to struggle toward becoming my ideal self.  Traveling on the path to perfection, I consider myself like a toddler determined to walk:  I slip often, yet am eager to try again and go a few steps further the next time around.
Raised by a distressing “what if” mother, I’d become dependent on my plans and thus resistant toward change.  When enduring my last days of pregnancy – the ones that crawled by while I ached, the ones that idled while I waddled, the ones that awoke me with nausea and wearied me with exhaustion – it was then that I trudged away from anxiety and padded toward patience.

I slowly accepted that the baby would arrive on the day that was best for him, not exactly the one best for me.  Though I surrendered my apprehension, I was pleasantly surprised by the superb timing of providence.  In 1999, as the winter chill surrendered, March sun-rays beamed warmly; Saturday announced my regal Casey.  In jubilee 2000, as the summer heat retreated, October foliage formed motley clubs; Tuesday lauded my jolly Caleb.  In 2003, as the holiday frenzy waned, January wafts sighed cool breaths; Monday presented my lovely Elizabeth.  In 2005, as the tempest clouds reprieved, October stars glistened with awe; Friday unveiled my gleaming Cassandra.  Yes, despite my need to grow in virtue, I continued to bear several children.  In time, I realized that my children did not delay my journey, but actually catalyzed my growth toward becoming more fully myself.

As a dejected adolescent, I had scoffed at finding hope in life.  In motherhood, I awoke to baby Cassandra, patting my face and greeting me with giggles.  I peeled back the covers of sarcasm and bounced along toward joy.

When my father left my family, all sense of security had abandoned me as well.  As a mother, I regained certainty when instructing others.  Determined to encourage confidence in one-year-old Casey, I held his hands – he steadied his feet – and then I let go.  I was right there if he needed me.  Casey wavered, then smiled wide while raising his foot and easing it forward.  I trusted in his abilities and he relied on my judgments.  Through guiding my children in the smallest of tasks, I stepped out of doubt and into courage.

As an only child, I had habitually concentrated on my own tasks, expecting others to wait a moment (or several) until I offered my undivided attention.  As a mother, I rarely possessed such a luxury.  Yet, when approached by two-year-old Cassandra – a darling who often crumbled during misunderstandings – I learned to stop everything.  I leaned over and listened….  She babbled, “A’mal c’ackuz, p’ease, Mommy?”  Animal crackers I gave her – without distracted frustration.  I set aside preoccupation and hastened toward attentiveness.

Following several years of higher education, I’d become over-analytical about everything.  As I blew bubbles with three-year-old Caleb, I glided from the depths of complexity toward the summit of simplicity.

In motherhood, I slowly shed my vice and put on virtue.  The process was so tedious and full of stumbles, however, that as a young mom, I often felt like the baby of the family.  I watched my older siblings – the experienced moms – walk, trot, and run even while carrying their loads.  Meanwhile, all my energy and attention were consumed by simply putting one foot in front of the other while caring for my children’s daily needs.  More often than not, I cried at my trip-ups – my failings – and often wallowed awhile in self-pity before rising for another try.

Still, I kept going and eventually did take on greater tasks.  I taught natural family planning to assist couples with child-spacing.  I enrolled in a story writing course to study my newfound hobby.  Most significant of all, I educated my children at home to form them in virtue.  No longer did I anticipate the day I could whisk the children out the door.  Instead, I eagerly researched ways to preserve our family unity.  I grew genuinely interested in knowing my children and sharing myself with them.  No longer did I plod through the days of changing baby diapers, filling toddler juice cups, cleaning preschooler messes, and settling kid skirmishes.  I gradually handled those tasks willingly while newly viewing my dependants through lenses of love.  I progressively considered my children as assets rather than liabilities.  Still, I craved the balance of temperance, the honesty of humility, the wisdom of prudence, and the regularity of diligence.
All through my dating years, I’d been the moody one, expecting others to read my thoughts and anticipate my needs.  While instructing four-year-old Elizabeth – a mini replica of the teenage me – I stumbled out of pettiness and into temperance.

As a newlywed, I had wrestled with pride, which often got the best of me.  How could I help it if I wanted to have things done my way? – done quickly and done right!  When glimpsing my daughter’s sorrow once I forbade her from helping me with dinner, my struggle ceased.   I crushed arrogance and welcomed humility when five-year-old Elizabeth finally forgave me.

As an adolescent, I had chosen clothing, music, and movies regardless of their influence on other people.  When six-year-old Casey pointed to a Playboy ad in the daily mail and asked, “Why do some women dress like that?” I pondered over an adequate answer.  After our discussion, I threw out indiscretion and sought after prudence.
I had formerly considered my daily tasks rather insignificant.  What did it matter if I picked up every little thing in my room?  After spending hours amidst playroom chaos – stashing magnet rods, building blocks, plastic food, playing cards, and railroad tracks with seven-year-old Caleb assisting me – I ordered us both to march out of indifference toward diligence, immediately!

As my children grew a bit older, I realized that I was not solely their caretaker and they were not simply my opportunity to grow in grace.  I was also their model, for better or worse – their guide between right and wrong.  They were often my mirror, reflecting the sickness or health of my soul.  The more the years passed, the more I desired to do better.  I no longer stayed satisfied with placing one foot in front of the other, day by day.  I wanted to trot down this path to sanctification.  But I earnestly resolved to not step around my children, as in an obstacle course.  Instead, I would hold their hands and guide them as they trekked beside me.  Even so, I had yet to embrace the most basic quality – thankfulness.

As a newlywed graced with a honeymoon baby, I had often sulked over lack of time to work on myself and my marriage.  When my children frolicked in the city zoo’s wading pool and I noticed that eight-year-old Casey – my firstborn – was missing, I never prayed more intently for my child’s safety.  Deserting resentment at that moment, I earnestly prayed for all sorrowing mothers who had lost a child.  I knelt in humble gratitude, relieved that I still had mine.
Of course, I continue my journey.  I persevere and am usually steady on my feet.  Yet, it is just when I grow overly confident that I tend to glance away from my goal and fall down flat.  I understand now that I may never reach perfection.  Even so, I know that my children and I journey side by side toward virtue.  They put their faith in me, I place my hope in them, and we walk together, secure in our love for each other.
               
 
Myriah C. Boudreaux is a budding children’s book author.  Myriah – a fifth-generation Pacific coast native – grew up in Orange County, California.  She subsequently attended Franciscan University of Steubenville, Ohio, where she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in psychology.  Soon after, she married Greg – a fifth-generation Gulf coast native.  The two of them moved to Pennsylvania – miles away from relatives – to begin a family of their own.  After bearing two sons in less than two years, they sought parental support.  The Boudreaux family moved to southern Louisiana, where they remain today.  Aside from being a homemaker and mother, Myriah is coordinator of the Louisiana Natural Birth Meetup, and is also the monthly newsletter biographer of new families joining Holy Family Homeschoolers.  Myriah continues to homeschool her children and walk with them daily on the path toward virtue.