Most teenagers believe someone is watching them. No, not in a stalker-ish kind of way. Just an I-assume-everyone-is-interested-in-what-I-do-say-and-think kind of way. Psychologists call it the Imaginary Audience, and it’s a belief that usually peters out by the time we hit our early twenties.
But does it have to?
I’m dying for an audience right now. The other day, I confessed to a dear friend that I sort of wish I still had that imaginary audience following me around right now. Of course, it’s not about what I look like at this point. Considering I’m still trying to figure out a way that striped knee highs, yoga pants and Danskos can appear fashionable and dignified, I’m not really interested in how an audience would interpret my outside self. (And whew, what a relief it is to be inching past that stage of life, isn’t it?) It’s more about having an audience keep me in check for my behavior, my actions.
I lost it last week with Stella, snapping at her sharply for a millisecond, and have had a really tough time recovering for some reason. Perhaps I’m struggling a little because of the ridiculously extreme rains that have hit the northwest. Maybe I’m just wallowing in the post-holiday, post-fabulous adventure blues. Or maybe I’m just totally tuckered out because my darling daughter keeps waking up at five in the morning. Whatever it is, I’m feeling the winter right now, and I’m doing everything I can to find some lightness and, more importantly, some patience as I parent a very precocious peanut.
So this is where the audience comes in. I realized recently that when I’ve been having a really crummy day and am about to lose it, I completely shift into Good Mama Mode when an outsider enters the picture. A friend. A family member. A complete stranger. Their mere presence allows me to center myself and find that more patient and gentle tone I prefer as Stella’s mama. Actually, I think allow is too kind a word. Their presence sort of forces all this. But I welcome the force, Obi Wan. Bring it on.
This audience wouldn’t stand in judgment of me as a mom. (I suspect I heap enough of that on myself for one set of shoulders.) They would, however, simply serve as a checks and balances of sort. They’d quietly and kindly remind me that I actually want to remain calm and collected despite the temptation to morph into Cruella de Vil.
The tough part is that I really love my alone time. Having an actual audience around all the time isn’t really all that appealing (or practical). Stella and the Papa have wormed their way so deeply and lovingly into my heart, that I consider their presence more than acceptable when it comes to alone time. I crave our time together. But Stella and Papa are just too darn familiar to serve as an audience. I know. I know. They, of all people, should be the ones who inspire me to be at my best as far as mothering. And for the most part, they do. But there are moments – right? – where they sort of necessitate the audience rather than serve as the audience. And by they I mean Stella when she’s steeped in her it’s-a-good-thing-you’re-cute self. Plus, I trust them so intimately, that I’ve been known to let my not so best self out of the closet when they’re around. A conundrum, right?
So the challenge is striking a balance between surrounding myself with a loving and supportive audience on those tough days but also figuring out how to recreate the effects of such an audience when it’s just me and the peanut. In writing this, I think I’m really making a request of myself, that my best self, the one who comes out when others are around, shine through when my good mama juju has flown out the window. And as I think about it, it all becomes a little exciting (and a little wonky), because think of all the possibilities as far as audience members. I can summon the pros like all those What To Expect and Sears folks. And I can summon all the amazing mothers in my life as well as all those characters from books and movies I’ve admired over the years. (I know Atticus Finch isn’t a mom, but he makes the cut as far as patience and integrity is concerned.) I’d, of course, have to invite Mother Theresa if I really wanted to get it right. And I’d reserve a seat for my dad’s mom since I really think we would have gotten on well as fellow moms. And if I want to have a little fun with this, I could really put on a show. I mean, really. What would be the harm in inviting a few extra folks to admire my refined and poised mothering? Say… Paul Newman. Perhaps Ewan McGregor is free. Oooh, how about Daniel Day-Lewis?
I know I’m hedging toward Wonks-ville here, but this suddenly seems more do-able, doesn’t it? Who said we’re not allowed to have fun with this self-improvement gig? Of course, if you’ve all written me off as a nutter at this point, fair dues. But at least I’ll be the calm and patient mama with Brad Pitt in my kitchen.
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