There are no gold stars (but there’s a lot of self-imposed pressure)

Lesson #20 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #20. You can read the full series here.

What high-achiever dreams are made of. (Getty Images)

There are no gold stars for having an organized refrigerator.

There are no gold stars for always being on time.

There are no gold stars for making a meal plan and actually sticking to it.

***

I still remember my first report card. In primary school, we were graded not with As, Bs, or Cs, but U for Unsatisfactory and S for Satisfactory (big words for such little kids, now that I think about it). I remember looking at that neat row — S after S — with pride. I remember feeling even better knowing that my parents were pleased. Satisfactory, indeed.

***

There are no gold stars for sending thank-you notes. 

There are no gold stars for writing color-coded to-do lists.

There are no gold stars for breastfeeding, baby-led weaning, or serving your children food that’s arranged into clever designs.

***

Parents don’t get report cards. This is a good thing, right? I’m not sure. There have been times I’ve wished there was a grade I could receive: some tangible proof that I was raising my child correctly. That all this work, all this exhaustion, all this striving to say and do and model the right things was being acknowledged.

This weekend, my daughter said, “Good job, mom!” when I finished making a batch of peanut butter oatmeal balls for the week ahead. It’s embarrassing to admit how much I needed to hear that. 

***

There are no gold stars for having a manicured lawn.

There are no gold stars for hiring a photographer to take family photos, turning those photos into holiday cards, and mailing them out on time.

There are no gold stars for never taking a sick day.

There are no gold stars for having “perfect” skin, hair, nails, or teeth.

***

There’s a section of Oh, The Places You’ll Go that pops into my head from time to time.

First, we’re reminded how exciting life can be — that there’s fun ahead, points to be scored, and games to be won. We’re told that, “You’ll be famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.”

On the next page, the part that sticks with me:

Except when they don’t. 
Because sometimes they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
‘cause you’ll play against you.

I know Dr. Seuss is problematic. (Do I get a gold star for acknowledging that? Nope.) Still, as someone constantly trying to best myself, I find it helpful to remember how unwinnable these games are. I’m not going to win a prize for never missing a week of my newsletter, for working untold hours, or for making sure the refrigerator is always stocked with those peanut butter balls.

I can’t win these games. Still, I try. And trying to win means that I can and do lose.

***

There are no gold stars for hosting your book club and serving cookies made from scratch.

There are no gold stars for finishing every book you start.

There are no gold stars for having matching plates, matching cookware, matching towels, or matching family pajamas. You don’t even get a gold star for making sure your socks match.

There are no gold stars for folding and putting away laundry the same day you wash it.

***

In third grade, I got into my school’s gifted program, called SAGE: Special and Gifted Education. Once a week, the “gifted” students left their regular classes for SAGE.

Our teacher was no-nonsense. She spoke quickly and authoritatively, making it clear she expected a lot of her students. I was intimidated by her — so much so that I was too nervous to ask to go to the bathroom on our first day of class. I was 7 years old, and as our no-nonsense teacher explained how SAGE would work, I peed my pants. None of my gifted peers knew what to say, though a few of them stifled laughter.

From then on, I was determined to prove my worth in SAGE — to show my teacher and classmates that I was, indeed, smart. That I belonged there. I’m not sure if I ever accomplished that goal, but I know I never stopped trying.

***

There are no gold stars for reaching Inbox Zero.

There are no gold stars for planning every detail of every vacation.

There are no gold stars for hitting your daily step goal — or for having a step goal in the first place.

There are no gold stars for organizing your closet, bagging up old clothing, and dropping it off at Goodwill. There are no gold stars for finding a more virtuous place to donate instead.

***

My daughter just turned 4. Next year, she’ll be old enough for Pre-K. The year after that, she’ll be one of the oldest kids in kindergarten. Studies show that children who start school at an older age perform better than their younger classmates. I wish I didn’t know this fact, but I do. I wish this fact didn’t matter, but it does — at least as far as report cards and college admissions go.

I sometimes wonder how Billy and I will approach things whether or not our child gets accepted into a gifted program. I want her to know that every child is gifted — that everyone has their own special ability and way they approach the world. I want her to get good grades, but not rely on the validation of her teachers or parents. I want her to feel good enough, no matter what. I want her to intuitively know what I’m still trying to learn.

***

There are no gold stars for working late. There are no gold stars for getting up early.

There are no gold stars for keeping a gratitude journal. 

There are no gold stars for making your bed every morning.

There are no gold stars for starting an arbitrary newsletter project and sticking with it.

There are no gold stars — no reward at all — for constantly moving the goalposts on what “good enough” means to you.

***

What’s the lesson? That there are no gold stars in life? No, that’s a bummer and not entirely true.

Striving for excellence is valuable, because striving itself is part of what makes life enjoyable. (There are points to be scored and games to be won!) But striving to beat an unwinnable game — to chase an impossible standard of “enough” — is a losing proposition.

This is a lesson I’m still trying to learn: We can do our best, give ourselves grace when we fall short, and try to have some fun along the way. We can declare something “good enough” and mean it. We can cheer when we win and shrug when we don’t.

We can even buy ourselves a sheet of shiny, star-shaped stickers if that’s what makes our overachieving hearts happy.

xoxo
KHG