Tiny A inchworms her way across the floor with grim determination. She pulls herself across the carpet until she reaches my chair and, after tugging on my pant leg with her little fist, bear hugs my foot and lets out a yell far too loud for her little body.
She’s staring at me and yelling as I watch her in wonder.
I’ve just taken a bite of Campbell’s clam chowder.
She’s never smelled canned soup before. Never tasted it, or any kind of soup for that matter. Tiny A has no idea what I’m eating. But she knows, and is communicating with every fiber of her being, that she wants it.
Because I have it.
I am witnessing pure, unadulterated, unapologetic envy.
I pick her up and let her taste the clam chowder. She frowns, uncertain, then opens her mouth wide for another bite. Over the next ten minutes, hands far too quick for her size and indignant yells mean I can scarcely take a bite myself.
As I’m feeding her, I’m reminded of the Tenth Commandment: Thou shalt not covet.
I’m filled with wonder at how enthusiastically my tiny baby is breaking it.
I’m also filled with gratitude.
Certainly, her covetousness is inconvenient. Later she’ll have FOMO when she’s sent to bed. We won’t be able to eat ice cream in front of her. Every interesting object, every activity, every privilege enjoyed by someone else will become something she wants for herself.
But consider the alternative.
My stepdaughter, Tween D, hardly possesses two ounces of covetousness.
We can eat dessert in front of her. She goes to bed when she’s tired, even if the movie is still playing. She doesn’t ask for whatever is “in” among her friends at school.
A child who doesn’t want what you have and doesn’t particularly care to do what you’re doing makes very few waves. She doesn’t bother you. Doesn’t constantly demand your attention. Doesn’t insist on participating in everything.
A child like this is easy.
In the moment.
Conversely, an envy-filled child is intensely aware that she doesn’t have what you have and intensely frustrated that she can’t do what you do. She is disruptive, demanding, and inconvenient.
But when you zoom out, something else is happening.
She’s watching you. Mimicking you. Reaching for things beyond her abilities. Failure and pain do little to diminish her determination to try again.
You don’t have to deliberately teach her to want to grab things, bring food to her mouth, or chew. She’s constantly testing and pushing her own boundaries.
She sees something, and she wants it.
The child who doesn’t covet what you’re eating has little reason to investigate it. After all, she doesn’t know whether she’d like it. She may not watch how you get food to your mouth or what you’re doing once it gets there. The desire to participate, to imitate, to master what someone else can do, isn’t necessarily there to propel her forward.
With Tween D, so little has been learned incidentally. Things other children seem to acquire simply by watching and wanting to participate have required deliberate instruction. Every little thing must be broken down, demonstrated, practiced, and taught.
I’ve spent many sleepless nights worrying about Tween D’s self-esteem when she begins to compare herself to her peers.
She’s multiple grade levels behind in reading and struggles to do many things that come naturally to children far younger than she is. I’ve worried about how she’ll feel when she recognizes those differences. The embarrassment. The frustration. The painful realization that other children can do things she cannot.
But somehow, that day has never come.
She doesn’t seem particularly troubled by what she can’t do. She rarely expresses frustration that other children can do things she cannot. She seems no more distressed by her lack of ability than by the absence of dessert.
For years, I’ve worried about the pain of comparison.
But perhaps what troubles me now is that she hardly seems to notice.