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February 18, 2004
Monday February 16th, 2004.
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Valentine's Heartbreak: What do you do when nothing's good enough?
or: Chasing the Perfect Circle.
I have to say, I had a pretty nice Valentine's Day this year. Paul, Summer Lily, and I spent the afternoon and evening with my parents and sister, laughing, talking, eating lots of great food -- what could be better than spending the day with the people you love the most? Yet, despite all of this, my heart broke just a little bit, as I could no longer deny what I've been slowly coming to realize over the past few months. It is positively heartbreaking, sickening, soul-wrenching, when it becomes apparent just how self-critical your barely over two-and-a-half year old daughter is. What can a mother do, when nothing her daughter does is good enough -- according to that sweet, amazing, wonderful, astounding little girl herself?
At just around two years of age Summer Lily started drawing these most incredible stick-figure drawings. She'd carefully draw a quite round head; then two long sticks, close together, right down to the bottom of the page for legs; circles with dots inside for eyes complete with pupils; nice curvy smile; a scribble of hair (short if Carol, none if Grumpy, long if Paul or I); little eyebrows, nose, ears; long sticks for arms with short little sticks for fingers; and finally, feet. I beheld each of these little works as great masterpieces, begged Summer Lily if I could keep them, and carefully packed a few away and hung the others on the fridge. And then, something changed. Not sure what, not sure when; I didn't really pay too much attention, figuring it was another of those "this too shall pass" stages, gone before it's ever truly even arrived. My sweet little girl, this wonderful artist full of so much talent and promise, became her own worse critic. Quite simply, nothing was ever good enough. Her circles weren't circle enough, the eyes never quite right -- and that didn't *really* look like dad. I nearly cried, the day we sat on the floor together and she had made a beautiful card for Paul, and she crumpled it up and angrily threw it in the garbage so quickly I didn't even realize what was happening, then explained to me "it wasn't beautiful, it wasn't beautiful enough".
Last week, we tried to make a Valentine's Day card to give to Carol, my mum. Summer Lily wanted to do this, it was her idea and her suggestion. I embraced the idea fully, encouraged her, supplied fun sparkly heart stickers, bright paper, scissors, and any help I could offer. Carol didn't get a card, because nothing Summer Lily made was good enough. I gave Paul the card Summer Lily had made for him, after I rescued it from the garbage (it wasn't good enough, either). The latter half of the week we were both excited to make cut-out sugar cookies to give to Carol and Grumpy for Valentine's Day. We went shopping for a new heart-shaped cookie cutter, and eagerly waited for Friday to make the cookies. Summer Lily loves to bake, and I let her take the lead as much as it was possible and practical. When our cookies finally came out of the oven (after approximately six and a half minutes of nearly constant asking "are they ready yet? ready yet? are the cookies ready yet?" as we sat in front of the oven and watched them bake), she was close to being devastated because now they weren't good enough -- not the perfect cookie-cutter heart-shapes that had gone into the oven, as they had flattened and spread during the baking process. Later, that afternoon as we decorated our cookies with pink and white sprinkles and decorating sugar I asked Summer Lily if she was having fun. I think being stabbed directly in the heart would have been less painful than hearing no, this was no fun because the cookies weren't nice enough.
How could this have happened? Where does it come from? How can a toddler, my "little bit big, little bit little" girl have become so discerning? I honestly didn't even expect that a child of her age would be able to see the difference between a slightly wobbly circle with just barely overlapping ends, and the apparently perfectly round, complete circles she sees elsewhere. Looking back, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised (the beauty of retrospect....) because she has always been obsessive, a perfectionist, just never so self-critical. Towers not complete until blocks turned and their corners lined up perfectly. Toys, lined up in perfectly straight lines. Even as a self-proclaimed perfectionist, I can't understand how my little girl can be so concerned with such matters. At times, I can't even see what it is that she sees that isn't quite right. I don't understand, so how can I react? I've spent forever now wondering if I did something wrong, could I have done something differently. I have always tried to find a careful balance between over-praising what she's has done and accomplished for fear of creating a praise-driven child who can't be satisfied with anything when she's happy with the outcome, and wanting to be totally open and honest in letting my heart speak of the unparalleled, unconditional love and total awe I feel for this little creature and every last little thing she does. And I certainly have never offered any criticisms of my own of anything she's created. I think I've decided after much careful consideration and thought that her criticism comes from within, because she's the one who's first to say (usually before anything is even finished) that it's not right, not good, not perfect. Summer Lily, I love it! I cry out, as she crumples drawings out of aggravation; nope, not me, she says, not me.
It's not that I don't know what it feels like to be in search of the perfect circle, I very much do. I remember the way it felt, to want to create the vision I saw in my head of a finalized project, and be frustrated and overwhelmed, not knowing why it didn't look the same. But I was older than she is now; I don't think I'm ready to deal with this point yet, I don't think she's ready to deal with her perfectionism yet. I worry she'll always be chasing that perfect circle and unable to ever truly see the true beauty of wobbly lines and overlapping ends. I want her to see the art she creates, for the art it is, while still striving to create the vision of whatever it is she sees. How do you teach a "little bit little, little bit big" girl that sometimes it's the process, not the product, that is what really matters? Maybe that's just it -- she's a little bit little, a little bit big and one place that division falls is between not being developed enough to produce the vision she's big enough to dream. I don't doubt that this quest for perfectionism is very much a part of who she truly is, and I don't want to change it if it is, but until the point comes where the little has caught up to the big and she can chase the perfect circle without the frustration, aggravation, anger, and upset that she experiences now, what more can I do? I have never once "corrected" anything she has created, or made suggestions on how to make something better. In response to her worries and frustrations I have reassured her that the more she draws, the better she will be, and reminded her that once I couldn't draw circles the way I do now. I am sure to acknowledge her feelings of disappointment, and try to help fix things when they aren't right; I tell her that I love the way she draws. I attempt to explain that things like drawing are for fun, not to make us feel bad or upset, and that she should try to enjoy drawing or whatever else she is doing. When she points out flaws she's noticed in my pictures, I acknowledge them too, and tell her that I can see that the ears aren't exactly the same size, but that's OK because next time I'll just try again.
So tell me, because I can't find the perfect solution to this situation which so desperately needs one: what can I do? How do I help her, without altering her beyond who she is now and who she is supposed to be?
Really... what do I do?
with love,
Ashley.
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