I’m celebrating my mom imperfectionism today because it has inadvertently crafted an excellent life lesson for my 17 year-old scary-know-it-all-teenage son.

You see I never won the battle of the finish your homework and study routine. I gave up. I gave up after so many miserable afternoons and evenings. My son and I were much happier that way so I let it slide. And slide. And slide more. Mom imperfectionism at its finest.

This resulted in my son’s GPA being undesirable to the Big Ten he’d suddenly grown interested in. Intelligent kid. Could have been at the top of his class had he put forth the effort.

Knowing this made me the train wreck that I’d been for the past several months. What the hell were we going to do?

Together, he and I came up with a plan. He was going to take both the SAT and ACT in one month. And score very high. He had less than 2 months to study and do nothing but study. Day and night. Non-stop. Of course it was a battle, night after night, as I knew it would be based on our history. My husband even gave it a shot a night or two.

At the same time, my son was forced to complete essays for the applications I was submitting on his behalf to what seemed like a bazillion colleges.

We had but a Hail Mary. Hope that someone in an admissions office somewhere would give him a chance based solely on those test scores.

The good news: my son has actually acknowledged that he messed up and that he learned something from the mess. The better news: something good, a valuable lesson, actually came as a result of my mom imperfectionism.

The best news: His test scores are fantastic. Some areas even ranking him 94th percentile nationally.

And it gets even better. I’m the proud, imperfect mom of an Ohio State Buckeye! I can hardly contain myself. I’ve jumped up and down. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. It’s his dream. It’s mine.

My son. Brilliant test taker. Irrefutable procrastinator. Excessive risk taker. OSU Buckeye. I’m really starting to believe the kid leads a charmed life or something.

Today’s guest author Martine de Luna is work-at-home mom, and owner of the award-winning blog, Dainty Mom, a tips and inspiration blog for work-at-home moms. Born in the sunny Philippine islands, raised in Hong Kong and Singapore, Martine fell in love with writing in her years in the British school system. She joined a poetry club in school at age 10 and has been writing ever since, apprenticing on editorial teams as a teenager, teaching English as a single professional, and now writing for a living as a freelancer and consultant. She lives in Manila with her hubby, Ton, and son, Vito Sebastian.

Sometimes, there’s a temptation for me to be “superwoman” for my family; to try and be the savior or something to that effect. I suppose it’s the perfectionist in me. I like things to be a certain way, and when they’re not going my way, I get frazzled. Times likes these – such as the anecdote I’m about to share – I always get pulled up to higher ground, by none other than my husband. He keeps me grounded, reminding me that things don’t always have to be perfect, as long as life is good.

It’s amazing how many things can latch on to a train of thought. Especially when those things are old Nikes.

A few days ago, as I was getting ready to leave for a meeting with a client, I slipped out of the room quietly so as not to wake my husband. He looked so tired out, and the room was still cool from the airconditioning, so I thought it best to leave him in slumber.

While putting on my step-ins (I’ve given up on high heels since becoming a mom. OK, I can deal with 3-inch pumps, but that’s it!), I noticed hubby’s worn out Nike’s beside mine. I remember that he slipped on them a few days before because the soles had worn out, and he hadn’t had the chance to buy a new pair yet.

Looking at the faded trainers, I wondered what I could do, but knew I couldn’t do much. I couldn’t afford to buy a brand new pair, not anytime soon. Expenses for the groceries, the house, the car payment, and our son’s needs were our priority these days.

I felt rather bad as I mused about the shoes.

When was the last time he treated himself?, I thought. Seeing my line up of newly-bought clothes in the closet – which I’d purchased because I needed some decent things for client meetings – made the feeling even worse. I was starting to feel guilty, wondering if he was deferring the purchase of new shoes because he had much to sacrifice for the sake of me and our son.

And the feeling got worse as I ambled on through the day’s work.

That night, I burst into tears – a rarity for practical, ‘ol me.

“What’s wrong, babe? Tell me,” he said.

Silence. I felt too ashamed to say anything.

It wasn’t until he had hugged me, kissed me and cuddled me, and comforted me with several “It’s OKs” that I finally let the weight of the days thoughts fall. I told him how I felt, how lousy I was feeling about his worn-out shoes, how maybe I was on the receiving end too much.

He smiled: that semi-sad, semi-hopeful look I have studied well these last three-going-four years of marriage. He hugged me again, and assured me that I needn’t worry. New shoes were the least of his concerns these days, he said. All he wanted was to make sure I and our son had everything we needed. And with that, he wiped away the rest of my tears.

I have a wonderful husband. I am assured of this, that even if the time comes when we’ll both need replacement shoes, he will make a way – even if it means me getting a pair first, not him. It’s just an act of love that assures me of this: that in my husband’s love, I never need find a reason to worry.

Several weeks ago, I received an email from Felicity Huffman asking if I was interested in becoming a contributing writer for her fantastic new site, What the Flicka?

The site launched on March 1. You can now find me there each week helping Felicity and the Flicka team sort through the ups and downs of life and motherhood.

I’ve been a fan of Desperate Housewives and Lynette since forever, so you can imagine what a thrill this is for me!

Today, I’m over at Flicka discussing my enthusiastic dish ownership compulsion:

 ”So move over Bree Van de Kamp and Martha Stewart, because take-out looks delightful reheated and plated on my fabulous dinnerware.”

If you have a few moments, I would love your support! Go read A Dinnerware Addiction. Please leave a comment on the article.