As time progresses my respect, love, and admiration for my parents increases. They didn't do a perfect job, but they did it perfectly.
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Robert Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays"
But to avoid any more wordplay: Sometimes you need to use a flawed technique to achieve an end. You can execute that flawed technique perfectly, but that won't make it a perfect job.
There were interesting comments about 'having regrets' previously: https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=33118584