A for Effort
Today when I picked her up from daycare, as she was about to get into the car, Noelle picked a dandelion and gave it to me. "This is for you, Mommy," she said. I taught her how to make a wish and blow off the little white bits. "I wish you hadn't blown it away," she said. "Oh," I said, "I wanted to show you how pretty it looks when you blow it." She asked if she could give me another one that I keep and I said OK.
I learned something important in that moment. I was so pleased that Noelle made an effort for me, that I wanted to do something nice for her, show her how to blow and make a wish. But she didn't want me stealing her thunder. This was her gift to me. She didn't want me to turn right around and make it into a gift for her. Instead of taking it and saying, "Here, let me show you..." I should have said, "Do you want me to show you...?" Next time hopefully I will.
This reminds me of what Carleton psych professor Sharon Akimoto told me about social norms when I was interviewing her for my Voice story about privilege. As a society, we collectively agree to a set of assumptions that function as a shorthand that make interactions and decisions easier. Reciprocity is one of those norms. But norms are facilitative, not moral. They aren't necessarily right or wrong, but because they're ingrained we can mistakenly behave as if they are. Noelle doesn't have to passively accept reciprocation just because it's what people do if it isn't what she wants. And I don't have to always give in to my knee-jerk reaction to reciprocate immediately and forcefully when someone does something nice for me. In many ways, it is really liberating and refreshing to have a chance to step outside of the strict confines of those norms and really pay attention to what you're doing and imagine what it must feel like for someone whose perspective is different from yours. (On the other hand, it would probably suck if you were forced to do that all the time, which is why norms are so punishing to the people who don't understand them. I can consciously choose to disreagard norms because I know what they are, and that's freeing for me. It's a completely different experience for some other people.)
Last night, I gave a strawberry to someone who'd never had one before. He made a funny face when he bit into it, and at first I thought he was teasing me. "It has a really strong flavor," he said, and I knew he was being upfront at this point, but I was surprised. I don't really think of strawberries as being a face-puckering food. (I also couldn't understand how he'd managed to make it so far in life without ever trying one, because they're so ubiquitous.) This person has Asperger's Syndrome, and today while I was reading up on it I discovered that people with Asperger's Syndrome often have a hypersensitivity to sensory information, including taste. That strawberry literally tasted way different to him than it does to me, and the second I read that I stopped feeling confused by his reaction and started feeling fascinated-and then kind of humbled. What would it be like to taste that strawberry like he did? Was he nervous to do it? Did he really *want* to try one, or did he just do it to please me when I, in my exuberance, tried to please him by offering him one? The whole interaction is richer now, has deeper meaning. That looked like an ordinary moment to me at the time, but now I understand that in some ways it was a profound one.
And in some ways, Noelle deciding to not just get into the car but stop and pick me a dandelion was a profound moment, too.
Most importantly, what I realized is how easy it is to appreciate that effort in children and how much lazier we are about seeing it in adults. Every gift that a child gives us is special because they don't know yet that they're supposed to give the people they love gifts. When a little kid spontaneously offers to share with us, it's out of a genuine desire to please us, not some thoughtless rote action. But so many times when adults do it, that's the case, too. And I want to notice that.
What I hated most about my marriage is how little effort Michael was willing to expend for me. It wasn't just that he didn't see when I was hurt. It was that when I sat him down and tried to explain my feelings to him as clearly as possible, including his specific actions that contributed to my feelings and telling him that it was important to me, he just didn't care. Then I tried another tack. Instead of telling him how I felt and expecting him to figure out an appropriate response to that, I told him specific things I wanted him to do to help me. Sometimes he even said he'd do them, but he never did. I gave him polite, nonconfrontational reminders. Still nothing. I could never find the efforts he made for me, and to this day I don't know for sure if it's because he wasn't doing much or I wasn't looking properly.
Having a kid changes the way you look at adults. Being tolerant of your child teaches you to be more tolerant of adults. Seeing beauty in your child teaches you to see beauty in adults. Watching Noelle give me that dandelion helped me understand what had happened the night before when that person took two bites of a food he'd never tasted, possibly for no other reason than to please me. I have friends who listen to me when they're having a bad day, who speak to me gently when I annoy them, who accept my boistrous (and sometimes erratic) behavior even when it doesn't make sense to them. All of those things are gifts, effort that was made for me. I don't need presents or grand gestures. I need to see someone making an effort for me because they care. And part of that rests upon me seeing it, because effort can be invested in the things that seem small and everyday to me. And every scrap of that effort is precious. Every bit of it I see makes me feel like such a blessed person. Every piece makes me feel reenergized to give more, myself. I want to see. I want to understand. I want to accept and appreciate these little gifts that I am being given every day.
How rich am I to have been given two such special gifts of effort in a single 24-hour period? Plus there was the friend who made time to chat with me even though her day was hectically busy and the coworker who returned from vacation and told me that he can tell I look thinner, even though he almost never pays attention to or remarks on anyone's physical appearance, just because he knows how important my weight-loss is to me. My coworkers took time to reassure me when I got wracked with guilt for accidentally breaking a bottle of raspberry viniagrette all over the office floor. And my boss invited me to come visit her new dog sometime this week just because she knows how much I love dogs. None of these people had to make this effort for me. And yet all of them did, and that was just today.
I hope that I can convey to them how much I appreciate that in the language that each of them understands and accepts best. I'm sure going to try.
I'm struck by how much this entry goes hand-in-hand with what I wrote earlier today. It is really important to understand my own needs in balance with others'. But it's also important to see their gifts of effort and to really pay attention to my own effort-if only to ensure that it's there as much as I want it to be.
So there's my yin and yang for the day. And with that, I think I'm going to bed.
I learned something important in that moment. I was so pleased that Noelle made an effort for me, that I wanted to do something nice for her, show her how to blow and make a wish. But she didn't want me stealing her thunder. This was her gift to me. She didn't want me to turn right around and make it into a gift for her. Instead of taking it and saying, "Here, let me show you..." I should have said, "Do you want me to show you...?" Next time hopefully I will.
This reminds me of what Carleton psych professor Sharon Akimoto told me about social norms when I was interviewing her for my Voice story about privilege. As a society, we collectively agree to a set of assumptions that function as a shorthand that make interactions and decisions easier. Reciprocity is one of those norms. But norms are facilitative, not moral. They aren't necessarily right or wrong, but because they're ingrained we can mistakenly behave as if they are. Noelle doesn't have to passively accept reciprocation just because it's what people do if it isn't what she wants. And I don't have to always give in to my knee-jerk reaction to reciprocate immediately and forcefully when someone does something nice for me. In many ways, it is really liberating and refreshing to have a chance to step outside of the strict confines of those norms and really pay attention to what you're doing and imagine what it must feel like for someone whose perspective is different from yours. (On the other hand, it would probably suck if you were forced to do that all the time, which is why norms are so punishing to the people who don't understand them. I can consciously choose to disreagard norms because I know what they are, and that's freeing for me. It's a completely different experience for some other people.)
Last night, I gave a strawberry to someone who'd never had one before. He made a funny face when he bit into it, and at first I thought he was teasing me. "It has a really strong flavor," he said, and I knew he was being upfront at this point, but I was surprised. I don't really think of strawberries as being a face-puckering food. (I also couldn't understand how he'd managed to make it so far in life without ever trying one, because they're so ubiquitous.) This person has Asperger's Syndrome, and today while I was reading up on it I discovered that people with Asperger's Syndrome often have a hypersensitivity to sensory information, including taste. That strawberry literally tasted way different to him than it does to me, and the second I read that I stopped feeling confused by his reaction and started feeling fascinated-and then kind of humbled. What would it be like to taste that strawberry like he did? Was he nervous to do it? Did he really *want* to try one, or did he just do it to please me when I, in my exuberance, tried to please him by offering him one? The whole interaction is richer now, has deeper meaning. That looked like an ordinary moment to me at the time, but now I understand that in some ways it was a profound one.
And in some ways, Noelle deciding to not just get into the car but stop and pick me a dandelion was a profound moment, too.
Most importantly, what I realized is how easy it is to appreciate that effort in children and how much lazier we are about seeing it in adults. Every gift that a child gives us is special because they don't know yet that they're supposed to give the people they love gifts. When a little kid spontaneously offers to share with us, it's out of a genuine desire to please us, not some thoughtless rote action. But so many times when adults do it, that's the case, too. And I want to notice that.
What I hated most about my marriage is how little effort Michael was willing to expend for me. It wasn't just that he didn't see when I was hurt. It was that when I sat him down and tried to explain my feelings to him as clearly as possible, including his specific actions that contributed to my feelings and telling him that it was important to me, he just didn't care. Then I tried another tack. Instead of telling him how I felt and expecting him to figure out an appropriate response to that, I told him specific things I wanted him to do to help me. Sometimes he even said he'd do them, but he never did. I gave him polite, nonconfrontational reminders. Still nothing. I could never find the efforts he made for me, and to this day I don't know for sure if it's because he wasn't doing much or I wasn't looking properly.
Having a kid changes the way you look at adults. Being tolerant of your child teaches you to be more tolerant of adults. Seeing beauty in your child teaches you to see beauty in adults. Watching Noelle give me that dandelion helped me understand what had happened the night before when that person took two bites of a food he'd never tasted, possibly for no other reason than to please me. I have friends who listen to me when they're having a bad day, who speak to me gently when I annoy them, who accept my boistrous (and sometimes erratic) behavior even when it doesn't make sense to them. All of those things are gifts, effort that was made for me. I don't need presents or grand gestures. I need to see someone making an effort for me because they care. And part of that rests upon me seeing it, because effort can be invested in the things that seem small and everyday to me. And every scrap of that effort is precious. Every bit of it I see makes me feel like such a blessed person. Every piece makes me feel reenergized to give more, myself. I want to see. I want to understand. I want to accept and appreciate these little gifts that I am being given every day.
How rich am I to have been given two such special gifts of effort in a single 24-hour period? Plus there was the friend who made time to chat with me even though her day was hectically busy and the coworker who returned from vacation and told me that he can tell I look thinner, even though he almost never pays attention to or remarks on anyone's physical appearance, just because he knows how important my weight-loss is to me. My coworkers took time to reassure me when I got wracked with guilt for accidentally breaking a bottle of raspberry viniagrette all over the office floor. And my boss invited me to come visit her new dog sometime this week just because she knows how much I love dogs. None of these people had to make this effort for me. And yet all of them did, and that was just today.
I hope that I can convey to them how much I appreciate that in the language that each of them understands and accepts best. I'm sure going to try.
I'm struck by how much this entry goes hand-in-hand with what I wrote earlier today. It is really important to understand my own needs in balance with others'. But it's also important to see their gifts of effort and to really pay attention to my own effort-if only to ensure that it's there as much as I want it to be.
So there's my yin and yang for the day. And with that, I think I'm going to bed.