Crying Babies and the Absence of Language (Reflection on November 2020)

Hey patrons,

All right! Just one more month left in this crazy year. November has been quite an interesting month for me personally, especially as I’m settling into this new role as a father. Needless to say, I’ve been reflecting on all sorts of things, and for this month’s reflection, I wanted to briefly go over one of these things that’s been on my mind.

Today, I wanted to discuss the ways in which language constructs the interpretations we make about ourselves. Sounds like an abstract concept, so let’s break it down a bit.

I’ve been thinking about this lately because when you raise a newborn, the first thing you notice is how dependent you are upon language to shape your model of reality. We all know that newborns cry incessantly, but there’s something uniquely humbling and frustrating about trying to comfort a hysterical baby.

In the beginning, you have no idea what the baby wants because her cries could mean one of so many things. Perhaps she’s hungry, she needs a diaper change, she just needs to be held, she wants to be bobbed up and down, she’s gassy, the list goes on. But the only way she could convey that need is by letting out a beastly cry, which sounds the same despite what her need is.

This inability to decipher what she wants, combined with your frantic desire to calm her down, leads to a situation where it’s easy to take things personally. You start thinking that you’re failing to give what your baby needs most, and that could make you upset and angry, which further exacerbates an already tense situation.

I soon realized that much of this comes from the fact that language is removed as an effective means of communication. If my newborn was able to tell me exactly what she wanted, then I would rarely question my ability to provide what she needs. But because she can’t do that, it leaves me guessing, and that type of guesswork carves open so much space for interpretation.

Seneca said that we suffer more in imagination than in reality, and nowhere is this more true than in the way we interpret ourselves. When my baby would cry while I held her, the immediate thought that would strike me was, “Dude, you are failing so bad at this right now.” It wasn’t something comforting (and probably more true) like, “Hey, it’s okay, you’re both just trying to figure things out.” Instead, it was an ice-cold thought about how badly I was messing things up.

One of the things that language does is that it eases the cognitive burden of making constant interpretations of our place in the world. If your friend tells you that he loves you, you can have a sense of peace knowing that you are indeed loved. Of course, those words must be backed with a sense of action and sincerity, but this exchange of words is an early indicator that some emotion is shared.

In the case of my crying newborn, there can be no linguistic exchange; all that can be traded are emotional textures like warmth, coldness, comfort, discomfort, and so on. This leaves a lot of room for interpretation, and if what you’re getting is hysteria and tears instead of words, then it’s only inevitable that you won’t be too kind to yourself in those interpretations.

Unchecked thought often bends toward rumination. I’ve found this to be especially true if you don’t use language to communicate what your thoughts are. For example, couples that don’t talk through their problems live in their own heads, and make interpretations about each other that are far more exaggerated than what may actually be the case. The same goes for work colleagues that make assumptions about one another without ever addressing those thoughts with them directly.

On the other hand, sometimes the inability to use language as a means of communication can actually heighten beneficial emotions, such as curiosity. An example would be if you were traveling to a foreign country, knowing that you’re equipped with the sole linguistic skill of saying “thank you” and “hello.” If anything, this actually piques your interest more, and makes you more open to understanding this interesting place better.

This shows that the inability to use language isn’t inherently a negatively thing. What’s negative is the interpretations you may make of yourself if you get feedback that is vague, or if it is emotionally charged (i.e. a crying baby).

Understanding this, I’ve realized how important it is to be kinder to yourself in your interpretations. If my baby is crying while I’m holding her, okay, let’s try something else. It’s not me that’s the problem, it’s whatever solution we’re trying out that’s not working.

If you feel like someone is ignoring you, it’s not because of a personal shortcoming. It’s because we all have different priorities, and that’s fine.

The important thing is to be aware of the first discomforting thought that may hit you, and then to tone it down a few notches to get to the truth. The emotional charge of these impulses may be strong, but don’t let their presence cloud what is actually the case.

In the instances where language isn’t immediately available, press pause on the narratives spinning around in the mind. And after you do that, remember to be kind in the interpretations you make of yourself.

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That’s it for this reflection. I know that many of you aren’t parents, but I think there are some threads in there that are applicable to everyone.

Thanks for all for your support, and feel free to share any thoughts or comments here, or as always, feel free to drop me a message!

-Lawrence