I've always had a ambivalent (or tortured) relationship to the idea of difference. As children, my sister and I took deep pleasure in what made us different from our peers: our European parents, spending summers in Greece instead of at summer camp, our good grades, and so on. We felt special, in the carelessly arrogant way of children. My sister has turned that belief into a brilliant career as a surgeon, where she has had to prove over and over again that she is, in fact, better at what she does (don't we all hope for a doctor who is the best?). I wasn't as brave as she, or perhaps as sure that my specialness was altogether a good thing: I found my joy in groups of friends, in a theater ensemble, in my college a capella group. All these places gave me a sense of being special while also confirming that I belonged, that I wasn't alone. Applause is a perfect affirmation of this doubled state: "You are wonderful and special! We embrace you!" I've probably never been happier than on stage: it was where I could be both special and loved.
Falling in love, of course, is another experience that provides this same kind of double-sided pleasure: in the first flush of love, you believe that no one has ever felt these emotions before, that no one has ever seen you the way your lover does. Yet at the same time, you are completely fused with another person, experiencing a bond that's all about vanquishing loneliness. This may be why that first love is particularly powerful: you feel both singular and connected so intensely that it completely rocks the foundation of how you perceive the world.
Yet since I left those parts of my life behind--no longer performing, settling into marriage, raising a family, trying to be a good mother--I've thought less and less about what makes me special or different. I've tried, in fact, to embrace the idea of being "good enough," as they say, and the drive for specialness is moderated if not utterly dormant. I know my family sees me as special--children are hard-wired that way, and my husband is loving and attentive--and I hope my friends do too. It's still satisfying to get praise for something I've done: that isn't something I've grown out of, though the opportunities to accomplish something (anything!) praise-worthy are shockingly slim in the life of a stay-at-home-mother. Yet I confess I still cling, somewhere, to that childhood desire to be special and different. Despite the Garrison Keillor cliché that we all believe we (and our children) are "above average," I still want to believe I am. Just not right now, perhaps.
When one has children, one wants them to be wonderful, special, good at things. Especially in places like New York, filled with accomplished people who believe rather firmly in their specialness, parents inevitably project these desires onto their children. Yet for the most part, I've tried hard to resist this impulse in my parenting. I tell myself--and generally believe--that I care less about steering my children towards extraordinary accomplishments than about guiding them towards happiness. I shudder when parents talk about wanting their children to be prodigies--one parent recently was speaking admiringly about Bill Gates' childhood (as related in Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers) and I was actually horrified to imagine my child turning out like him. Yes, I admire how he's using his (obscene) wealth to improve the world in many ways for so many people, but he was a rapacious (and potentially unethical) businessperson long before that. I've also heard stories about his extreme personal weirdness, and hints that he suffers from various mental disorders. That's not the kind of special I want for my children. Okay, if they appeared to excel in some activity, I wouldn't hurl myself in their path to greatness , but I abhor the idea of pushing them to accomplish something that's likely more about my own goals than theirs (and isn't it the very unusual child who truly has goals at a young age?).
The more I think about it--and I acknowledge there's an entire canon of theory and philosophy on this topic, which I'm ignoring here--the more I wonder how other people feel about this tug-of-war between wanting to be different and wanting to be the same? And how much awareness do they have about the way that struggle colors how they behave as parents? Children are keenly aware of difference, if not all its complexities, and I think as parents we can benefit from examining more closely how we experience that conflict ourselves, as well as how we guide them through finding their own balance between finding and celebrating what makes them unique while also grounding them in the world around them.
What I cooked this week;
- Arnaki Araka (Lamb with Peas and Dill; The New York Times Cookbook)
- Lentils with Roasted Beets and Preserved Lemon (The New York Times Cookbook)
- Himalayan Red Rice and Quinoa with Pistachios and Apricots (Ottolenghi)
- Coeurs à la Crème (Dorie Greenspan's Around My French Table; I like this recipe because the whipped cream makes it lighter than most) with Raspberry Coulis
- Chicken With Chilaquiles and Salsa Verde
