Smudged Polish.
Don't let perfection crush a chance for connection
.I was halfway through wiping dinner crumbs off the table when my daughter appeared, clutching two tiny bottles of nail polish. “Mom, can you paint with me?”
It wasn’t really a question. It was a bid: See me. Sit with me. Join me in my world for a minute. Psychologist and relationships expert John Gottman calls these “bids.” Building blocks of trust and intimacy. To me, they’re limited opportunities. My twins are nearly eight. Their preference from parent to peer is shifting quickly. It’s appropriate but still stings. Very soon, my babies won’t plead for my time and attention with such urgency.
Admittedly, in that moment when Grace came into the kitchen, I really wanted to finish cleaning. It was getting late. I was spent and really didn’t want to have overtired children the next day. But how could I turn her away? I’d never get this particular summer night to love my daughter again. She held out the glass bottles. I grabbed her hand.
We sat down on the bathroom floor, ankles crossed like we were at kindergarten circle time. She painted my left hand; I painted her right. The polish pooled in cuticles, streaked thin in places, and picked up strands of hair for extra texture. By the end, our nails looked like they’d gone through a small storm of sparkles and enthusiasm.
As she admired our handiwork, I felt an itch of perfectionism. Fix it now, my mind told me. Remove the chunky coats, repaint, make them look “nice.” The impulse was automatic, but another thought pushed through: What message does an immediate do-over send?
If I grabbed the remover, I’d be telling her that her best wasn’t enough. I’d be teaching her that beauty is only worth celebrating when it’s flawless. So I left the polish right where it was: lumpy, smudged, gloriously imperfect. It was crazy-making but also very good. (For both of us. In many ways.)
From the moment we enter this world to the minute we leave it, there’s something deep in all of us that’s desperate to be seen and celebrated. We’re wired to connect. Children (and adults) toss out hundreds of bids a day. Courageous moments of vulnerability. In each bid, there’s a risk of rejection. A child’s bid might sound like, “Watch me throw!” “Look what I drew!” “Can you read a book to me?” Responding doesn’t have to take tons of time. It does require us to pause and remember what’s important. We need to intentionally turn toward, rather than away. Put down the phone. Look up to make eye contact. Excitedly say, “Tell me more!” In a simple pivot, we communicate: You matter more than my endless list of to-dos.
Life happens in messy brushstrokes. The drips and smears are records of presence, proof that we showed up rather than stood back. When we allow imperfection to remain visible, we model self-acceptance. We also grant our children (and ourselves) permission to try, stumble, and still belong. On my bathroom floor the lesson wasn’t about keeping polish inside the lines. It was about keeping love inside the moment.
The next morning I led a video call, glittery chips flashing as I talked strategy. No one commented, but I noticed every sparkle. Later that night my daughter traced a fingertip over my uneven pinky. “We match,” she grinned. Yes, we do, baby girl. Not just in color.
Think back to the last bid for connection you received. Did you turn toward or away?
If you enjoyed this post, spread the Joy and share it with someone else.
If you’re interested in more strategies for strengthening self-awareness and raising your EQ, don’t miss Finding Joy:
For more of my musings on love, life, and work, you can follow me on Linked In.