My two youngest girls have a way of acting up around older kids. They start giggling and cackling, talking in shrill voices, jumping on Merry and her friends, slapping butts--it's a predictable and oh-so-fun routine. If we're at home, door slamming and Merry's shrieks ("Get OUT!") ensue. If we're away from home, we generally have to pull the girls aside by their elbows and hiss, "Calm down. Do you think we're ever going to get invited back to [insert place here] if you act so crazy?"
This happened recently at a soccer game. Martin took Elspeth along and she started crawling over Merry and her friends sitting in the bleachers a few rows down. Merry, who turns twelve shades of red if we call to her when she's with her teammates, simmered like a gasket about to blow.
Of course, as I explain it to myself and to Merry, Elspeth's behavior is a desperate bid for attention, to be recognized by the cool teenagers. She's four years younger than Merry, smart as a whip and comfortable in her own skin and among her own peers. But put her among Merry and friends and she's exactly what her part calls for:
Annoying Younger Sister (enters stage left, screaming like banshee)
On the way home from the soccer game, Martin sighed from the front seat. Elspeth, exhausted from her display, stared out the window.
"Look," Martin finally said, taking advantage, as all parents do, of the car (perfect therapy time-- they're buckled in and can't go anywhere). "Look, Elspeth, people aren't impressed when you're crazy. Nobody wants to be around a crazy kid who's jumping all over them. Okay? So just be yourself. Just be Elspeth."
There was a pause, and then Elspeth asked: "What's Elspeth?"
With one question, she exposed the root of the matter--What is Elspeth? And how do I know? And how to I find out?
It was so existential and perfectly timed that I've been mulling it over for a while--not who Elspeth is, since I as her mother have a fairly good idea--but the question itself, and how we all ask that question over and over again during our lives. It drives us, bewilders us, and at some point, delights us when we ask that question of the right people. Because it is a rare and wonderful thing to be known well by another human being, and to be loved well by that person, and to ask that person, "Who am I?" and have them tell you things that you were too afraid to believe about yourself.
Merry's been asking Martin and me, "How would you describe my personality?" At the cusp of thirteen, it's vital that we reply honestly and volubly. She's searching for who she is, and what part she plays and will play in this world. Mostly, I want her to know that she is loved, through and through, and that she is beautiful not because of what she does but because of who she is. I hope that if she can believe that and make it the core of who she is, good things, like self-respect, being kind to others, doing her best--will radiate out from that truth.
I was talking with a friend of mine who has been desperately depressed in the past year to the point that she no longer thought her own life was worth anything. I was telling her who she was, because I know and love her well. She listened, unbelieving, and told me of how she has been trying to prove her worth through her accomplishments. Martin piped in: "It seems to me," he said, "That the people who love you best don't give a flying fig whether or not you accomplish anything. It doesn't change what they think of you if you succeed or fail. There's a base of love, and a base of knowing you, that remains unchanged. And no matter what you accomplish, if you can't accept yourself without the accomplishments, nothing you do will ever be enough."
I felt the truth of this down to my very bones. A painful truth, really, for a restless person, but such a good one, too. That is why we need people around us who know and love us, to keep telling us, You are lovely just the way you are. Truly, I feel that I am my own worst critic.
Toward the end of our conversation, my friend said, "I feel like accepting that I'm loved just for who I am--well, it should be easy!"
"No," I said quickly, "It is one of the hardest things in the world. To accept the lies that we tell ourselves about who we are--that's easy. To really believe that we're loved for who we are--that's hard." It is hard. This past year we've seen loved ones struggle through the mire of depression. And it's so hard, so very hard, to replace thoughts and beliefs in worthlessness with ones of hope and truth.
And the older I grow, and the more I study the older adults whom I once believed lived life blithely, completely secure in who they were, the more I realize that the journeys of humans are not easy ones. No matter how healthy or well-adjusted or spiritually sound we are one moment, we may at the next moment, find ourselves adrift in a sea of doubt and loneliness. If you are fortunate enough to be known by wise, truthful, and loving people, summon those people and ask them, "Who am I?" And then listen closely, and dare to believe that the answers they give you are real and true. And so speak the truth to others, who may need to hear it more than you realize: You are wonderful, just the way you are.
I do not mean to sound like a pop song "You're amazing, just the way you are. . ." Shudder. I do want to remind myself to keep saying these things sincerely to my children, since all children, in the end, are at the mercy of their faulted parents.
Stove roars and I have procrastinated long enough. I really do need to get to my book, around which I've been dancing for the past four days. Now I've got that dratted song stuck in my head. Drat. Drat. Wish me luck. . . .
This happened recently at a soccer game. Martin took Elspeth along and she started crawling over Merry and her friends sitting in the bleachers a few rows down. Merry, who turns twelve shades of red if we call to her when she's with her teammates, simmered like a gasket about to blow.
Of course, as I explain it to myself and to Merry, Elspeth's behavior is a desperate bid for attention, to be recognized by the cool teenagers. She's four years younger than Merry, smart as a whip and comfortable in her own skin and among her own peers. But put her among Merry and friends and she's exactly what her part calls for:
Annoying Younger Sister (enters stage left, screaming like banshee)
On the way home from the soccer game, Martin sighed from the front seat. Elspeth, exhausted from her display, stared out the window.
"Look," Martin finally said, taking advantage, as all parents do, of the car (perfect therapy time-- they're buckled in and can't go anywhere). "Look, Elspeth, people aren't impressed when you're crazy. Nobody wants to be around a crazy kid who's jumping all over them. Okay? So just be yourself. Just be Elspeth."
There was a pause, and then Elspeth asked: "What's Elspeth?"
With one question, she exposed the root of the matter--What is Elspeth? And how do I know? And how to I find out?
It was so existential and perfectly timed that I've been mulling it over for a while--not who Elspeth is, since I as her mother have a fairly good idea--but the question itself, and how we all ask that question over and over again during our lives. It drives us, bewilders us, and at some point, delights us when we ask that question of the right people. Because it is a rare and wonderful thing to be known well by another human being, and to be loved well by that person, and to ask that person, "Who am I?" and have them tell you things that you were too afraid to believe about yourself.
Merry's been asking Martin and me, "How would you describe my personality?" At the cusp of thirteen, it's vital that we reply honestly and volubly. She's searching for who she is, and what part she plays and will play in this world. Mostly, I want her to know that she is loved, through and through, and that she is beautiful not because of what she does but because of who she is. I hope that if she can believe that and make it the core of who she is, good things, like self-respect, being kind to others, doing her best--will radiate out from that truth.
I was talking with a friend of mine who has been desperately depressed in the past year to the point that she no longer thought her own life was worth anything. I was telling her who she was, because I know and love her well. She listened, unbelieving, and told me of how she has been trying to prove her worth through her accomplishments. Martin piped in: "It seems to me," he said, "That the people who love you best don't give a flying fig whether or not you accomplish anything. It doesn't change what they think of you if you succeed or fail. There's a base of love, and a base of knowing you, that remains unchanged. And no matter what you accomplish, if you can't accept yourself without the accomplishments, nothing you do will ever be enough."
I felt the truth of this down to my very bones. A painful truth, really, for a restless person, but such a good one, too. That is why we need people around us who know and love us, to keep telling us, You are lovely just the way you are. Truly, I feel that I am my own worst critic.
Toward the end of our conversation, my friend said, "I feel like accepting that I'm loved just for who I am--well, it should be easy!"
"No," I said quickly, "It is one of the hardest things in the world. To accept the lies that we tell ourselves about who we are--that's easy. To really believe that we're loved for who we are--that's hard." It is hard. This past year we've seen loved ones struggle through the mire of depression. And it's so hard, so very hard, to replace thoughts and beliefs in worthlessness with ones of hope and truth.
And the older I grow, and the more I study the older adults whom I once believed lived life blithely, completely secure in who they were, the more I realize that the journeys of humans are not easy ones. No matter how healthy or well-adjusted or spiritually sound we are one moment, we may at the next moment, find ourselves adrift in a sea of doubt and loneliness. If you are fortunate enough to be known by wise, truthful, and loving people, summon those people and ask them, "Who am I?" And then listen closely, and dare to believe that the answers they give you are real and true. And so speak the truth to others, who may need to hear it more than you realize: You are wonderful, just the way you are.
I do not mean to sound like a pop song "You're amazing, just the way you are. . ." Shudder. I do want to remind myself to keep saying these things sincerely to my children, since all children, in the end, are at the mercy of their faulted parents.
Stove roars and I have procrastinated long enough. I really do need to get to my book, around which I've been dancing for the past four days. Now I've got that dratted song stuck in my head. Drat. Drat. Wish me luck. . . .
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