TIVOLI JENSEN

Sometimes, in the course of an otherwise normal day, August will stop what she’s doing, turn to me, and with an air of contentedness say, “I’m the best me.” She’ll then nod, as if testing the words as they reach the universe and repeat, “I’m the best me.”

To which I reply, devoid of wanted apologies or necessity of decorum, “Yes, yes, you are.”

There’s something insatiably wonderful about a person who knows their worth and takes the moment to acknowledge it.  Granted, this person that I speak of is three, but she’s already mastered a lesson that I’ve not mastered with twenty more years of experience.

My son does something of the kind, too, but is more inclined to extol his masteries when they’re tied to an activity.  “Mama!  I’m awesome!” he’ll cry, “Watch me jump!  Watch me climb!  Watch me shake my booty!”  No act has limits, his life marked with a definitive lack of impossibility.

Now, since both of my children do this, I must assume that most children have fantastic self-confidence, or, rather, a lack of self-insecurity.  What then occurs to change these innocent displays of childhood self-love into drastically heart-wrenching adulthood doubt?

I recall one of my dearest friends recounting how she felt she wasn’t doing enough.  That, at the ripe age of twenty-two, and being a college graduate, and having struck out on her own to chase her dreams, and who had resounding successes and was an all-around great human, felt inadequate rendered me speechless.  She then, as an afterthought, mentioned in a tone worthy of describing weather, that the night prior she’d won a competition for her art.

I do believe, using my mastery of word and wit, I swore.  Like a sailor.  In her face. I would have been fined by the FCC, bleeped on SNL, and smacked on the hand by my grandmother.

“Don’t downplay!” I cried when I finally had a vocabulary again.

She gave me a shocked look.

“You’re downplaying!  You’re doing all these great things and living and adventuring and you think it’s not worth anything?”  (When incensed, I must note, italics become my only form of communication).

“Well…I don’t know.  It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?  You’re amazing!  You’re taking chances!  You’re working hard, you’re winning, you’re failing, you’re making a life that when you’re old you can recount stories to your grandchildren and never run out of things to say!”  I took a breath, my eyes wide with wonder.  “You are allowed to be proud of you.”

She looked as me as if this was the first time she’d heard this in her life.

If there’s one thing that being a human and a mother has taught me, it’s that if you’re not proud of you, no one will be.  Sure, Mrs. Bennet extolled that those who never complain are never pitied, but what of those who choose to look at their lives and say “Oh!  The cleverness of me!”  There is nothing wrong in supreme moments when one’s chest swells, when the air is almost too sweet, when the light is perfect, when the jeans fit just right, when the grades are perfect, when you run the whole 10K, when you get through the treatment, when the words are said perfectly, when you reach the end of the day, and, generally, whenever one does a thing.  Any thing.  Any thing that is important and gets accomplished.  Moments where the overwhelming feeling of “I am enough” reigns.

Because it’s okay to be proud of you.  And it’s okay to say “I’m the best me there is” and “I’m awesome.”