'Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self Esteem' is the Actual Title of a Book!

Posted September 07, 2007

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Maybe you suffer from this condition too, since it affects far more women than men. I'm not talking about the teenaged pimples sprouting perversely on your crone's forehead like tulips in October, or the way such missiles as "Tell me you didn't take her sledding without gloves!" are launched daily from your silo of nagging. I'm not talking about pubic hair extending its empire past your shins and collarbone as it carries out its demonic plan to take over the entire world! Or even your Googlitis, with its tortured late-night bouts of trolling for doom (I happen to know that you generated "0 matches" for the search expression "children in whom apparent health is actually a symptom of something really bad").

No. I'm talking about the sickness of Needing to Be Liked (I wrote that as a joke but then, of course, Googled it, and now it's twenty minutes later and I have diagnosed myself something called an "ENFP" on some sort of Jungian personality scale, just FYI). I am guessing there are not a whole lot of people blogging out there who don't experience at least vague symptoms of this sickness. Or maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe you're like neon signs that don't care if they get plugged in or not. Maybe you're like "Screw you! I hope you read my blog and hate it, you stupid blog-hater who I'm better than anyways!" I wish I were more like that. Instead of the way I am, with the insecurity leaking out of my pores like used car oil. I'm so jealous of one famous blogger, for instance, that when you mention her name, I get that clenchy cheated-on feeling. (I found the photographs of you with her blog! I saw the motel receipts! I know that you and her blog had room-service eggs benedict and fresh-squeezed orange juice! I hope you at least used Firewall protection! Slut.)

Now where was I? Oh right. Needing to be liked. This week it's not about needing to be liked by the mean Romanian dental hygienist ("You use electric toothbrush? No? Big disgusting gum pockets. Need use electric toothbrush." "Okay! I totally will! I've been wanting to anyways, actually! That's great! Sorry about the disgusting gum pockets! Thank you so much!") or the unsmiling woman at the cafe ("That's great! Thank you so much! Is that a new jacket? Is it wool? It's beautiful. You know, I used to have this same exact job, and my lattes were always kind of soap-sudsy instead of with this nice creamy foam that you're so awesome at making! Thanks again!").

No, this week we're planning Birdy's "Family Talk," when we all go into her classroom to tell the kids about our family and what we're like. And I'm filled with a kind of performance anxiety I can't exactly put my finger on. Is it the eighteen other 3-year-olds I'm worried about? Will they fling Kleenex and Cheerios at us? It's more likely the teachers, with whom I am more or less in love. All the other kids will surely fill the Share Basket with ticket stubs from Paris, portraits from Family Oil Painting Night, candles made from the wax of the bees they keep behind their organic vegetable garden, and Birdy will just say, "Um, this is the People magazine my mom stole from the dentist's office and read when she was supposed to be playing Harvest Time with us."

Maybe I'm just tired. I'm lying on the bed, while Birdy floats around the room gathering up potential family-talk specimens. "I could bring this rubber band!" she says. "I don't know, sweetie. Do you think a rubber band will help your classmates learn more about our family?" "Well," she says. "We do use rubber bands. Or this sweater! Our family likes to wear sweaters!" She stops in front of the desk. "We like to write on paper!" Sitting up is required and accomplished by me. We get out the photo albums, talk about the kind of trips we like to take (camping on Cape Cod) and the things we like to do (play music); the basket is filled with games, photographs, instruments, paints, and we are fine, I see, and we are not even faking it.

Who cares that the next day Birdy seems to have no idea about who we are? She answers "A hotel!" to the question of where we stay on the Cape; "Skiing!" is what we like to do in the winter. Who cares that we have never done either of things? I'm not as nervous as I'd feared; I don't need to be crowned Best Family Talk Parent after all. And you don't either. Was it something Mister Rogers used to sing? Maybe to Billy Joel? I love you just the way you are.

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'Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self Esteem' is the Actual Title of a Book!

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by Catherine Newman

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

Dalai Mama Dishes

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

'Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self Esteem' is the Actual Title of a Book!

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