To Other Little Girls They Are Life-Sized
July 29th, 2008
Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized. ~Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye
I have a game I play with myself I call perspective: when a problem is bothering me I try to remind myself that five years from now I probably won’t even remember the details of it. That’s a nice, self-help-y sounding start, right? Only, this week I suddenly realized that I don’t get to live five years from now, I get to live right now, and sometimes stuff right now stinks.
So much of parenting in my family right now seems to be meeting my kids melt-downs. They feed and dress themselves and even help out with household chores, and go about the world so autonomously, that the real work of parenting now seems mainly to be catching them when the cannot cope and helping them find means of coping. Sometimes the melt-downs are unexpected or seem disproportionate, and my first instinct is to play the perspective game with them — ‘That? That’s a small problem!’ But there’s a violence in that, a dismissal, a telling them that their feelings are somehow less real, less meaningful.
One of the gifts my kids give me is the un-self-conscious experiencing of what they experience, both their bright eagerness and the seriousness with which they take their problems. And this means acknowledging that their problems are as real as mine, whether they are problems of handling frustration or difficulty in sharing, needing the discipline to get things done or finding quiet space and time for themselves, that I realize that they are developing the same skills to deal that I wish I consistently had in my toolbox. One could pretend adult problems, in perspective, are more serious because the consequences of adult mistakes seems so much more life-altering, but no matter what size we are, we all seem to be struggling for our sense of autonomy and proficiency and self-sufficiency and connection and dignity and the need for loving attention. Those stakes are much more what motivates me than worrying I’ll make a mistake that results in homelessness or destitution.
One of my pet theories is that while reading lots of fiction is great for developing empathy, you risk starting to think of yourself as a literary character, and one aspect of that is that to give books sufficient drama, real heft the stakes characters face are ones of standing in a community or the ability to make a living, love versus alienation, the outcome of nations. So stakes less than that — finding you’re out some essential ingredient for the meal you planned to make, a stain on a new shirt, toys strewn across a room you just straightened — how can they seem so dramatic, how can they throw me so? They arise like symbols of futility and incompetence and unworthiness instead of just being what they are.
The trick with the perspective game is not to use it to invalidate experience. If you’re comforting a friend, the first thing you do is acknowledge her feelings, not try and tell her that her problems are a hill of beans compared with the mountainous real problems out there. Misapplied, the comfort of perspective is a second flogging for feeling bad about something you somehow believe you shouldn’t. When you’re suffering you’re not in any position to figure out the fine line between acknowledging feelings and wallowing in them, and that’s when you need outside perspective.
July 30th, 2008 at 9:36 am
I love the Atwood quote.
At the risk of being thrown off your blog for good, once again I feel compelled to share something I heard at a meeting recently. It came from the funny woman I was telling you about on the phone the other day, the one who’s been sober longer than God. I can’t remember what the topic was, but she was talking about how over the years she’s watched people stay sober while walking through some pretty devastating crises. In fact, as a group we seem to really rise to the occasion and shine when it comes to dealing with major drama. We are, after all, crisis people. But it’s the little stuff, the everyday mundane crap that sends us over the edge. I mean for heaven’s sake does the garbage have to go out again? We’re all walking around with elephant guns but no one’s got an ant gun.
I couldn’t help but laugh at this one because it matches my experience so perfectly. I wonder, though, if alcoholics are really so unique in this respect. Maybe we’re all wandering around with elephant guns?
August 1st, 2008 at 9:54 am
The Brujo and I discussed precisely these issues during our Utah soujourn: the deep human need for validation, and our tendency to blow away ants with cannonballs.
And I would say more but I have to go pay the rent. Wheeennnn do you come baaaack from Bahá’í camp?!??
August 7th, 2008 at 11:44 am
I drifted over here via my friend followthatdog’s blog “from stage dives to station wagons”
The Atwood quote caught my eye. Must reread that book now that I have a little girl.
Thanks for your beautifully written perspectives.
August 12th, 2008 at 11:56 am
yes. precisely. it’s the realization that their terror and stress and sadness is justified and valid that makes it so hard to handle. the more empathy i have for my kids’ struggles — i remember so keenly how frustrating it was when *i* learned to ride a bike! — the more i’m able to calmly help them through it.
with everett lately i’ve been telling a lot of stories, some from my childhood, some from adulthood. that destroyed piece of garbage — ahem, “treasure” — chewed up by monroe, reminds me of the lovely painted sink my mom broke. we honor one anothers’ deepest emotions.
that said, i’m often not equipped to deal with the meltdowns, to help them through it, sometimes i’m melting down, too. here’s to being a better model of graceful melting down.
August 22nd, 2008 at 10:45 pm
I like your pet theory, very thought-provoking and I really enjoyed Cat’s Eye, thanks for the reminder, I should be about ready to read it again soon.