I can see it happening. It’s coming like a bullet train, faster than I expected, and even if I threw my body in front of it, I can’t possibly stop it from happening.
My son’s ego has reared its head, said hello, and plans on staying awhile.
Perhaps you’ve seen this in your children, too. One month they’re happy, pliable, self-unaware, and confident. The next month they’re arguing with their sister and standing their ground in their need to be right. Becoming shy and defiant when asked to sing something. Curbing their enthusiasm because they’re being told it’s not appropriate.
That person that’s feeding them that? Themselves.
The ego. That little voice in our heads that tells us we’re not good enough, not smart enough, not enough period. And that because we’re not enough, we need to let others know that as well.
The brilliant Eckhart Tolle describes the ego as “self-identification with thinking, to be trapped in thought, which means to have a mental image of “me” based on thought and emotions.”
It’s the thing that makes you compare your parenting to others. The voice that tells you your butt is too big to wear skinny jeans. The force that begs you not to sing Happy Birthday in a crowd of coworkers for fear they’ll hear you.
In some, the ego inflates instead of deflates. It’s responsible for feeling self-important and self-centered. You can see it so clearly in athletes, music stars, and most of the Kardashians. But I think the ego is at its worst when it’s busy beating you down.
My son is a happy, energetic, sensitive and socially outgoing guy. He’s always had this amazing sense of confidence and curiosity that allows him to hold adult conversations with the bagger at the grocery store, and feel at home the minute he walks in to just about any room.
But I see glimpses of him censoring himself. Struggling to assert his power over his sister. Doubting his abilities. All completely normal in the development of a small kid. But it still saddens me.
The moment I recognized it was a few weeks ago in the car. My son used to sing out loud. All the time. I repeat, All The Time. Constantly humming, singing lyrics to his favorite songs, perhaps accompanied by a wiggle.
And suddenly, it’s stopped. That sweet voice that used to confidently botch up the words has gone silent. In the car, at home. I miss it.
I asked him why he doesn’t sing anymore. I received the typical first-grader response of “I don’t know, I just don’t like to.”
Really? I asked. Because you used to sing all the time. What happened?
I don’t know he replied.
And after much digging and prodding, I began to wonder if maybe he didn’t sing anymore because he thought he wasn’t good at it. That the little voice in his head told him not to, that he would look foolish if he sang out loud. That singing was for babies.
His younger sister, only three years old, hasn’t developed that voice yet. And, as head-strong as she is, I imagine that when that voice surfaces, she’ll probably show it the middle finger and move on with her day.
With my daughter, she sings with every fiber of her being. To every song in the car, whether she knows the words or not. She sings with her eyes closed, arms stretched out like a Celine Dion in training. Dances every chance she can get, clothing is optional.
What I wouldn’t do to keep her that way.
But my son has crossed over to that place where his mind compares himself to others. The place that, as a dancer, I’m all too familiar with.
That day, in the car, I felt like I had failed as a parent. That I did nothing to prevent this from happening. That it was my fault that my son had developed like a normal human being, with thoughts and emotions and feelings and insecurities. Sounds ridiculous, right?
There was nothing I could do but tell my son that I loved him. That I loved his voice, that I missed hearing him sing. Then I suggested that if he wants to sing out loud, he should. He should tell that voice in his head, the one that shames him in to thinking that singing is for either highly trained folks, or babies and crazy people, to shut up.
And later that night, as I heard him singing the theme song to Phineas and Ferb to himself while he got his pajamas on, I savored every note.
