I often set myself high standards. I don't always realise I'm doing it: I just have an idea in my head of how things should be and am disappointed if they are not. I don't always stop to think if I am being realistic.
My garden is an example of this. I am often overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work required to transform this weed infested waste-ground into a blooming paradise, and I layer on the guilt by worrying that there isn't as much space for the children to play as there might be, there are not mature bushes for them to hide in or flower beds for them to plant.
I am learning to change how I look at it though. In two afternoons of gardening this week, I have called a halt as I have felt that hot, irritable, resentful feeling begin to bubble up and we have sat at our table on the decking, with cups of tea and the newspaper and purposefully enjoyed the garden. While we were out yesterday, my son helped me plant carrots, fennel and radishes. He helped me cut and rake some of the long 'meadow' grass. He climbed on the frame with his sister, picked blackberries from the bramble bush and played a swing-ball tournament with himself. And I noticed. I allowed myself to see all the things the children can, and do, enjoy in our garden. And I allowed myself to feel satisfied. It may not be a show garden, but it is good enough.