A couple of weeks ago, about an hour before Tanya and I were about to leave the house on a Friday night, Sophia asked me why the baby sitter was coming over.
I told her I was going to try stand-up comedy at an open mic in Old Town, and that I was really nervous.
“What’s stand-up comedy?” Sophia asked.
“It’s where you get up on stage and try to tell jokes to make people laugh.”
“Dad, you’re the funniest guy I know,” she said. “You make me laugh, like, every minute of the day. You’ll do great!”
I could tell by my 7-year-old’s face that she was not, um, joking. Yet, while her comment allowed me to breathe easy for a few seconds, my nerves didn’t fully settle down. Why didn’t the compliment from my daughter make me feel better about my chances?
Confession time: I sometimes ask my 7- and 10-year-old daughters for their opinions just to make them feel good, not because I think they will provide sage counseling. They’re just kids, after all. They couldn’t possibly have enough experience or intellect to be able to offer good advice. Right?
I’ve always been the independent type. The upside of such a personality is having a high level of self-confidence, knowing that I can always find answers within myself and accomplish my goals. The downside is it’s often difficult for me to trust others, which can lead to undesirable consequences.
I’ve started to realize this over the years, and I’m now more apt to accept help than I ever was. It’ll probably be something I work on for the rest of my life.
My initial thought was, “How could this kid possibly know what it takes to succeed?” But children offer an entirely different perspective than we adults are used to hearing. As I went over my notes before the show, worried I would forget my routine and die a horrible death in front of all those people, I started to understand.
Yes, Sophia is biased (she doesn’t know that many funny people). But her wisdom emanates from — not in spite of — her relative ignorance of social norms and expectations. She could have done what many adults might have and retreated quietly, fearful of saying the wrong thing. But no, my soon-to-be second-grader somehow knew what, if anything, might allay my anxiety: encouragement. I know this because Tanya, the person I trust the most, told me the same thing about an hour later, and it made me feel better, or at least capable of finishing my set.
Despite my nerves, I summoned the courage to climb on stage as planned. Unfortunately, Sophia’s prediction was wrong. I got a few laughs, but for the most part, I heard the uncomfortable sound of moving air—"crickets"—as they say. I left the stage slightly embarrassed, and the victory of simply getting up there felt somewhat hollow.
Sophia never asked me how the show went, thank goodness. I still might be the funniest guy she knows, at least for now.
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