When I picked Jake up from school yesterday, one of his caregivers told me he’d been “doing much better lately.”
Since I thought he’d been doing just fine for some time now, I found this cheery message about as welcome as one of Jake’s epic morning poops.
“Better?” I asked, carefully modulating my voice to sound like someone merely expressing mild interest in a discussion of, say, the melting polar icecap. Involved, yes, impacted by the news, okay, but not in any way that directly affected me.
“Yeah,” she answered, warming to the subject. “He’s playing with his friends a lot more. And he’s not having tantrums like he used to.”
This was all new to me. I tried to recalibrate my picture of Jake at school from the, of course, sweetest kid in the group — uncomplaining, friendly, laughing — to this strange child being described to me. Could I have given birth to a tantrum-throwing, belligerent, antisocial being? I just couldn’t make the switch.
“He’s doing really well,” the caregiver concluded with a friendly smile.
This repeated phrase was of little comfort to me. Maybe, I thought weakly, she has Jake confused with someone else.
I tried to let it go, but I was mildly devastated. My child throwing tantrums? Sure, he throws them regularly at home these days, but the good kind that signal developmental progress. Not the kind the other kids throw at school, which are merely symptoms of future delinquency.
And antisocial? The whole reason we sent Jake to school was because of his intense interest in other kids. I had witnessed him and his girlfriend clucking quietly to each other. I’d warmed at the sight of him turning to his friends with a huge smile as they looked out the window at a squirrel attacking a bird feeder.
Was the caregiver suggesting that the minute I disappeared he hid between the sink and the changing table rejecting offerings of friendships from his classmates? Or, worse, had he become one of those kids who pushes other kids and steals their toys, even though he doesn’t have a big brother to blame for this sorry behavior?
I felt a little bit ashamed as I repeated the story to Mike that night. Because I knew — and I acknowledged as much — that I was missing the point. The caregiver was trying to give Jake a compliment of the sort designed to placate nervous mothers like me. But all I heard was its underbelly.
And this troubled me greatly. It’s one thing if I can’t take a compliment myself. It’s something else when I can’t even take one intended for my son.
Our Hearts Open in Both Directions
Most of the time, when I think about opening my heart to others, I concentrate on giving. I give kindness, encouragement, love. And, yes, compliments. I can give a compliment; I just can’t take one.
But opening your heart also means allowing other people in. And this, I fear is far more difficult for many of us.
I think about my reaction the other day when my mother-in-law said, “You’re doing a wonderful job, both as a mother and as a wife.”
What were the first words that came to my mind? Something along the lines of, “Oh, I’m okay” or “I do my best” or “Well, my child and my husband make it easy.” Subtly self-deprecating assertions designed to soften the tribute. It was as if I was allowing this volley of praise to make it only as far as the lobby of my heart. If it was allowed past the security guard and onto the elevator to the executive suite, it might take my soul hostage and force it to actually believe that others really mean the kind things they say about me.
Instead of saying any of these things, however, I said only, “Thank you.”
Because, don’t you know, I’ve trained myself to greet a compliment with a simple “thank you.” I am painfully aware that it is merely a defensive salvo necessary to ward off the self-defeat I really want to put into play.
This is, I feel pretty certain, a widespread reaction many women have to a compliment. “Oh, not really,” we say when a friend tells us we look good. “I’ve still got a few more pounds to go,” we murmur if someone ventures that we’ve lost weight. “It could be better,” we say tightly when a supervisor compliments us on a job well done.
We are — or at least I am, as are a lot of other people I know — really good at opening our hearts out, giving, nurturing, caring for others. But the doors seem to open in one direction only. And we inadvertently end up locking out those very people to whom we give.
Why Do Our Hearts Open in One Direction Only?
Why is it so difficult to take a compliment? To ask for help? To let our partner put the baby to sleep in the middle of the night?
I know that when I send Mike to sleep on the daybed while I sit up with the sick baby all night I think I’m doing it to be kind. “I can manage,” I tell myself. “Might as well let Mike get some rest.”
But, really, I’m afraid to let him do me the favor. Because when I’m really, really tired, or kind of sick, or recovering from surgery, I sleep on the daybed just fine. And now, as I trot out that list, I realize I have slept on the daybed exactly once for each of those occurrences. Three times out of all the nights Jake has needed some company in the middle of the night.
It’s like we think that opening our hearts means taking care of our loved ones, and if we let them take care of us we’re somehow falling down on the job. But, of course, we’re not. There’s not a finite amount of giving to be done in a relationship; we don’t become less loving because someone else is doing some of the loving too.
Maybe, it occurs to me, it’s a matter of what we think we deserve. If you think you have to work to be loved, then the only way to earn your family’s love is to do things for them. To have them do things for you — well, that’s no way to get them to love you. What have you done to deserve it? Besides the laundry, the grocery shopping, and the emptying of the diaper pail.
Love, we all know in some logical, underperforming part of our brains, doesn’t work that way. It’s not something we have to earn, from our partners, our children, or even our friends. It’s something that comes back to us when we open our hearts and give love. We just have to keep our hearts open enough to receive it.
When your heart opens in both directions, it is an acknowledgment that you deserve unconditional love. It is a recognition of your own beauty, as well as your vulnerability. Let someone in, and they will see exactly who you are. But if you believe in your own beauty, that shouldn’t be so scary.
So that, in the end, must be what taking a compliment is really about. It’s about truly, deeply believing in your own beauty. It’s about waking up from savasana at the end of a yoga practice with a clear eye to your own inner peace and not leaving it on your yoga mat. It’s about not being ashamed or afraid or reluctant to let your unique, beautiful self shine.
Isn’t this the sort of lesson we want to teach our children?
Yoga Heart Openers: The Smile, the Heart Breathing, the Cow
I was thinking I was about to offer the easiest yoga pose I’ll probably ever suggest in YogaMamaMe. But I just realized it’s not all that easy to smile.
It should be. But hold a camera in front of my face, and my cheeks start to hurt with the insincerity of this teeth-baring expression I’m wearing. Plop me at a bus stop on a cold, rainy day as I’m late for work, and it’s likely I’ve forgotten the corners of my mouth have the ability to turn up. And just try smiling at someone you’re feeling angry with. I’ll bet it turns into a frightening display of clenched teeth, not unlike the grin of a crocodile just before it strikes.
So here’s your practice. Smile at someone. Anyone. Okay, maybe not your child because that smile will come naturally. But when it does, observe how it feels so you can remember what a real smile is.
Then put your heart into it and smile at someone else. Your spouse. A friend. Or, if you’re feeling bold, a complete stranger. Put your heart into it, open up, and don’t look away. Be
prepared to receive whatever you get back. It’ll probably be a smile, and if it is, work on taking it in. Believe it. Believe that you make that person feel good.
Even if it’s a cold stare, you’ll discover that’s not so bad. Because if you keep trying you will find someone who will smile back. And all the cold stares will melt away.