There’s nothing that causes pride to swell in your heart quite as much as praise. As much as some of us would like to deny it, our hearts tend to soar when we’re acknowledged, when someone appreciates our work, when someone takes time out of their day to compliment us. Secretly, (or maybe not so secretly, in some cases), everyone craves approval, everyone aches for positive reinforcement.

As a child, I had a firm understanding of this notion. I was one of the few who did not hide their utter desperation for praise. Every time I learnt something new, I would rush to my mother’s lap or my father’s knee and beg for them to come and see. I would jump excitedly as they begrudgingly made their way to my bedroom or the backyard or wherever it was that I thought I had mastered whatever particular skill I was yearning to show them.

 

The first time this happened, I had just learned to ride a tricycle. I was upset and jealous that all of the other kids at preschool had already obtained this skill, and I had sat everyday at recess, stewing angrily; chubby, Pillsbury Dough Boy-esque arms folded in silent, indignant rage as I watched the other carefree children whiz by in a gleeful blur of shiny metal wheel spokes and pastel paint.

 

I did own a tricycle, but when I couldn’t ride it on the first try, I threw my fists to my sides in a hurricane of a temper tantrum, face red and formed into a scowl, and gave up to go inside and watch Dragon Tales. But, this recess incident had sparked a newfound determined rage in me, and when I got home from school, I rode my rusty red tricycle around the paved circle of my driveway until my calves became raw and scraped and the sky turned from a bright blue to a dusty orange. After that cycling session full of blood, sweat, tears, and maybe three or four Sunny-D juice boxes, I was a changed person. I ran up to the house as fast as my short legs could take me, and breathlessly rounded up my family.

 

Eventually, they all made their way to the driveway, and they stood expectantly, my father squatting on the ground, his elbows resting on his knees; my mother balancing my baby brother on her hip. I was so excited to show them my newly acquired skills that I tripped on the way to my tricycle, refusing any help as I got back up, brushing microscopic pieces of gravel off of my knees. And, I pulled it off, without a hitch. I did two perfect loops around the driveway with my eyes narrowed and my hands clenched around the handlebars, knuckles white.

 

My father rose up from his knees in avid, mad applause. He swung me up into his arms, and it was then that I first felt that incredible sense of pride flood through me. That was my first taste of acceptance and admiration, and I wanted more. I was hooked on it. But, my sudden dose of confidence was lowered by the tiniest bit when I noticed my mother, offering the smallest smile necessary, offering one weak cheer. I swatted at my father’s biceps in an effort to get him to put me down.

 

Once my tiny, Mary-jane clad feet touched down on the pavement, I ran to my mother, tugging at the bottom of her cornflower-blue dress. Upon asking her if she liked my tricycle riding, if I did well, she responded with a nod and a smile. A nod and a smile, and a “Good job, honey.” I was confused. That wasn’t enough for me. I expected wild fanfare, for her to bow down at my feet and worship my unparalleled tricycle skills. I wanted her acceptance, I craved it.

 

Fast forward about thirteen years, and the scene is the same, except my tricycle has been replaced with a bass guitar. My father is much older now, smatterings of grey now intertwined into his beard. He sits in the rocking chair, smiling warmly and applauding with his weathered, calloused hands. I look to my mother nervously, my eyes wide, glistening and expectant. My mother does her famous nod-and-smile, the nod-and-smile that had since become a constant in my life.  

 

The hunger for praise that first gnawed at me when I was learning to ride a tricycle came back in the form of a sudden, painful pang. I asked her what she thought of the song I had played, my voice wavering slightly. The childhood confidence had long since disappeared from my voice, and my words were now quiet and hesitant.

“Good job, honey.” She said before leaving the room. I put down the guitar. In my mind, my bottomless need for her approval was still not fulfilled. I don’t think it ever will be. But, that’s something I’ve since learned to be content with. And maybe, just maybe, someday, I’ll get a “Great job, honey.”