Too Confident?

Ella’s fifth-grade teacher recently gave her class an opportunity to become published authors.

Students could submit their writing to the librarian, who would make the work available for checkout like any other item in the school’s media center. In one week, Ella wrote, revised and finished a short story and excitedly submitted it.

I asked Ella if she would be open to emailing her story to the family, to show off her talent. “If you don’t feel comfortable, I totally understand,” I said. “I tend to be shy about letting people read my fiction.”

“Dad,” she replied, in a familiar tone, “I’ve sang songs and played guitar on stage in front of hundreds of people! I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have a problem with having a few people read my story.”

After hearing Ella’s undaunted expression of self-esteem, I wondered if there was a reasonable boundary between confidence and conceit. In other words, how much self-promotion is too much?

While I’m still somewhat shy about bragging about my accomplishments, I’ve learned that in certain situations, showing one’s feathers isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Let’s remember, though, I have many years of life experience under my belt. At 10, I did not possess anything near Ella’s confidence.

Expressing one’s pride can be buoying or damning. Just the right amount can put us in position to advance our station in life, like in a job interview. Show too much, though, and we risk coming across as self-aggrandizing egotists interested only in demonstrating our comparative greatness.

Our society tends to frown on those who continually sing their own praises. And with good reason: No one wants to be around the guy who tells you how much better he is at everything from Gin Rummy to grilling steak. But veering to the opposite extreme might not be the answer, either.

By attributing our every success to the work of others or just plain luck, we might come across as insincere. (Look how modest I am!) We also risk dismissing our own inevitable greatness. Moreover, for our children — whose future successes depend largely on developing a healthy sense of self-worth — placing a premium on modesty at the expense of honestly acknowledging our own abilities might inadvertently advertise that everyone else is more important than we are. It’s a nice thought, but evolutionary biology tells us that survival depends on first looking out for numero uno.

I helped Ella edit her story, and then watched her closely. She didn’t get offended or upset when I recommended certain minor grammatical and organizational changes, and she even initiated the difficult process of self-editing. Clearly, my precocious 10-year-old is living within the comfortable margins between confidence and humility. I fully admire her for it.

Ella should be proud of her mixture of effort, perseverance and creativity. And while I will certainly encourage her to be tactful in how she presents herself, I must constantly remind myself that our world is becoming more competitive by the minute. Her audience will only grow bigger.

Wee Wisdom: All right kids, listen up...or actually, don't

During a family road trip to New Mexico a couple of weeks ago, we played a book on CD.

In one scene, the main character, a fifth-grader, got in trouble because he didn’t listen to what his teacher had said. From the back seat, Sophia piped up. “I always listen to my teacher,” she said. “I’d be afraid not to.”

Tanya asked our 7-year-old, “So why don’t you listen to me and Dad all the time?”

“If I don’t know someone very well, I always listen to them,” she replied. “I just don’t always listen to people I know.”

Tanya and I mirrored each other: mouths agape, eyes wide and suppressing laughter that threatened to bubble to the surface. We had just gained valuable access into the mind of our child, but I was still fuzzy on the details. Did most kids feel like Sophia? More importantly, what did familiarity have to do with listening?

I’ve often been perplexed when our kids’ babysitters, teachers or friends’ parents report to us how well Ella and Sophia listen to them. On many occasions, I’ve had to rub my eyes as if in a dream when the sitter tells me what time my kids went to bed. Normally it takes a dozen reminders to put dirty clothes in the hamper. And even then I get huffy breaths and tortured sighs in response.

Don’t get me wrong, I think my daughters are generally well-behaved. And like all little animals, they have their moments … every morning before school and every night before bed.

But on that day, careening northward through New Mexico in the minivan, Sophia revealed a major secret: All the time we’d spent with her and her sister, all the devotion and personal attention we’d invested during the years made us less likely, not more, to be listened to. The paradoxical notion of our second-grader’s assertion still sounded strange.

Then I recalled a compliment my mother-in-law had given Tanya a few years ago. She said that we should feel honored that our kids don’t always listen to us; it showed we were doing our job as parents.

Say what?

She had explained that our daughters trusted us implicitly and felt safe enough in our presence to know that no matter what they said or did (or didn’t do), we’d still love them. Mom and Dad weren’t going to leave over a broken glass or a missed homework assignment. Thus, our kids felt they had license to challenge our authority more than they would with someone less familiar.

Was she implying Ella and Sophia didn’t feel safe with anyone else giving them orders, that they followed rules only out of fear?

To some extent, possibly. I suspect their reasoning lies in a combination of playing it safe as well as good manners learned during the years. Regardless of their motives, I’m satisfied to know that my kids understand the importance of respecting adults other than us.

And maybe the next time I ask my kids 50 times to brush their teeth, I should hope they love me enough to not listen.