Life in the minds of others
< div>Sometimes grown-ups play make-believe too.
We are not satisfied with our own life as it really is; we desire to live an imaginary life in the minds of others, and for that purpose we endeavour to shine. We labour unceasingly
to adorn and preserve our imaginary existence, and neglect the real.
(Pascal)
I forget what is real about me sometimes, I spend time trying to project a persona that I am aiming for but notalways achieving. And yet, sometimes faking it has gotten me to valuable places. When a situation that seems insurmountable for me, I will approach it thinkingabout how it would be handled by the appropriate member of my small panetheon of heroes (including, but not limited to, my mother, the logistical problem-solver,
a Baha’i woman I know who has the social grace to deal with anything stupid a person could say to her, Aod‡n’s first preschool teacher, possessed of
apparently infinite patience, my sister, who could make my children believe folding laundry is fun, and my mother-in-law, whom I envision as a mother lion standing up for and protecting her cubs with a ferocity that one ought never to mess with). And pretending to be someone who could handle a particular problem is often all that problem needs. The harder thing is trying to project a confidence and a competence and falling flat on my face and feeling transparent and embarrassed. The idea that Pascal should have struggled with how he wanted to be seen rather than how he truly was
reassures me. I am working on the authentic me, and I can laugh at myself and how embarrassing moments are probably good for the soul. I try to breastfeed discreetly and my son is sure to grunt loudly, indiscreetly. We are more likely to run into people we know when a child is melting down than when all of my children are behaving like the angels they truly are. And it’s
ok.
The thing is, I am always surprised to realize I am not the only insecure human being on the planet. I blunder into someone else’s insecurity and it shocks me, especially because it is often unexpected, the beautiful woman who sees herself as fat, the outgoing, confident-seeming person who reveals feeling shy or awkward. And I am never quite sure how to deal with it when the insecurity comes up, if I say “But you aren’t fat!” or “I worry about that too!” doesn’t it reinforce that as something valid to worry about? To say, “Who on earth would ever notice your thighs when
you have an amazing sense of humor, have generosity out the window, and are successfully raising gorgeous children?” pretty much could only be heard as “Wow are your thighs hideous!” It e makes me angry, yet I look in the mirror and a
thought flashes through my head that, a committed pacifist, I would come to
blows defending my best friends against. It is so hard to be realistic about
the things I am vulnerable about; it is easier to be my own very harshest
critic so that nothing anyone else says can hurt as much or to embrace denial
because I need it to go on. And I hate that we all walk around pretending we
don’t have any insecurities, but the alternative is just as
terrifying.
Bringing up children can be
a lonely, thankless job — I am sure my older children look at the care and
attention the baby gets and are quite unable to believe that they themselves
were once the recipients of all that care and attention themselves, seeing
themselves as whole and self-sufficient they’ve successfully suppressed the
memory of being rather small and dependent. I think that in that respect,
parenting is like writing, that the best technique leaves you unaware of the
technique. And if in this solitary work I invent an audience in my head to
witness the endless tasks I am doing, I think that’s a little justified, so long
as I don’t go too far and try to live an imaginary life as an imaginary person
in the minds of my imaginary audience.
