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My post on "I don't know how you do it" as an othering statement got a little bit of traffic and commentary.  Most of the quotes are from Facebook, so I'm not going to attribute them (unless one of the original writers should happen to read this followup and ask me to).

Some people felt that the "othering" is not necessarily a form of dismissal, but more "an acknowledgement of the skill set of someone"else that I seem to lack:"

We're talking about the skills that can and do develop out of necessity in times of necessity.  The statement is, I think, more a statement about grace and hope – the hope that there are skills out there that I don't have; that there is grace for surviving…  I'm not saying that it is something that should be said – because it does grate and feel like othering.

See, now, to that I would say  that IDKHYDI is not the appropriate observation to make (out loud) because in this case it's not true.  The writer of this observation does know "how that person does it," or at least she has a theory:  out of necessity the skills develop.  She calls it grace and hope.  IDKHYDI is a statement of hopelessnessShe has put herself in that person's shoes and imagined "if I had to, I would be able to do that."  This is the antithesis of IDKHYDI, which is a statement of hopelessness.

Others said as much:  

If you think about it, there's a falseness to it in even those cases, though. After all, you admit you *do* know "how they do it"–by developing a skill set, by working hard, by surviving, by giving some things up (or having them taken), by relying on other's support, by making different choices. So it might actually help to mentally rephrase that into a more accurate statement: "I admire what you are able to accomplish."

Another suggestion offered was that "IDKHYDI" is sometimes simply true:  the endurance is incomprehensible.    A reply (not from me):

[T]here are situations where "I could never do…" can be accurate self-assessment. Given my neurological limitations, for example, I could never do anything that requires a great deal of quick memorization. 

Of course, that's not usually what is meant by that statement. Usually what is meant is "I could never prioritize that goal the way you do."

 And I think that's exactly right about what's meant.  Another friend of mine jumped in to agree with this and added, that yes, that is what IDKHYDI means:

For everything from "I could never be a stay-at-home mom" to "I could never be monogamous."

That led to the reply:

I was thinking of fitness and diet when I wrote that, since that's where I've caught myself thinking, "I could never…" when the truth is really that it's not a priority to me now… I want to say "I could never" because being faced with differing priorities can be uncomfortable; I may admire them, but that challenges me to examine my own.

"I could never…" allows me to acknowledge the accomplishment without being challenged by it.

And some pointed out that yes, you can come up with examples where "IDKHYDI" (or its cousin, I could never do what you do) is literally true.  (There's that plausible deniability again!)  But most of the time it's not:

People say these things about all kinds of accomplishments that are not really incomprehensible–or are very easily answered (I don't know how you become such an accomplished pianist. Oh, it takes several thousand hours of dedicated practice? Good to know.

Someone asked me, 

Out of curiosity–do you think "othering" is a verb that refers to intent, to something objective about the situation or statement, or primarily to effect?

That did get me thinking.  

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I will not disagree with the notion that many people are just trying to say something neutral or kind when they pull out IDKHYDI. I stand by my statement that it is an instance of othering, at least unconscious, and frequently the othering is deliberate and conscious though it be without conscious malice ("you are special"). I think magical thinking is part of it sometimes (you are different from me and that reassures me that I will never be in your situation) and desire not to be challenged is part of it sometimes (I could never) and part of it is sheer tribalism (you're nuts, lady). The ambiguousness of the intent makes IDKHYDI akin to, if not as serious a social problem as, othering statements in the context of racial and gender differences. The ambiguousness provides plausible deniability that will be accepted as innocuous by members of the speaker's "tribe" and further serve as a marker of exclusion for those who object to the label. ("People like that are so sensitive, I was only trying to be nice.")

So what if, instead of IDKHYDI, we sought and acknowledged common ground? What would that look like? Humans are adaptable, we are capable of changing our priorities, and we are capable of intense focus on our identified priorities — all of us are. We don't have to think that we would choose the same priorities in order to praise someone for doing the hard work that makes their priorities happen. Why on earth must we always get defensive when faced with someone who has done nothing more aggressive to us than arrange her own priorities in a different way?

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Later, on Saturday morning, I thought of an example.  I was trying to get to the weekday (well, Saturday — not Sunday, I mean) eight o'clock Mass at the parish in the first suburb to the south, but I'd been sluggish in getting out of bed.  I was slurping down an espresso at 7:21 a.m., Italian-style, standing up in the coffee shop, hoping that this would get me under the wire for communion if the homilist wasn't too brief; and wondering how people (especially ones with small children) ever manage to get to a weekday morning Mass every single day.  I'm a morning person and it seems insurmountable.

And yet I know that people do it.  Because they have different priorities (thank you, Facebook commenter).  

No — wait — they don't have different priorities, as if specially gifted people wake up and find themselves in possession of the appropriate priorities.  

They make from the situation they are in, priorities that fit into that situation and that satisfy their values.

So in my imaginary dialogue with The Mother Who Is Something Like Me Except That She Goes To Weekday Masses More Often Than Only Once In A While — okay, really it's a monologue —

— I could say:  I don't know how you do it.

Or I could stretch my imagination just a teeny bit and say:  "Gosh, I think that if I were going to make it to an 8 a.m. Mass every day, instead of only once in a while, I would need to buy an espresso machine for my kitchen.  What's your secret?"

That doesn't shut down a conversation — at least not on purpose.  It might start one.  I think it's better.  But it's probably not the only way.  

Just Another Jenny wrote about "I don't know how you do it:"

There is nothing that prompted this post except memory. For some reason this phrase bubbled to the forefront of my mind and I remembered the pain it can sometimes bring:

I don't know how you do it.

Lots of us have heard it from time to time.  I don't usually experience it as "painful;" rather, annoying (not this again).  But I have heard it mostly in reference to aspects of my lifestyle about which I do not have ambiguous or negative feelings.  I remember hearing it while I was a graduate student in engineering school, for instance. ("I don't know how you do…" what?  Math?)  And I hear it now about home education and about raising five children.  I channel the slight annoyance into bemusement and, I'm afraid, into a tiny sense of superiority which I really should try to quash.  

Of course you don't know how I do it.  That's why I do it, and you don't.

No, I don't say it out loud, but I admit to thinking it.  It's not good because, though interior, it represents a  retaliation in kind.  I am hitting back with the same stick that is being waved at me.  

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Jenny is in a situation significantly different from mine, but one that attracts "I don't know how you do it" from mothers in situations that are more similar to mine:

Usually the context of this phrase is when a mother who normally stays home with her children has had to leave town without them for a few days. She is struck by how much she misses her children and how happy she is to be reunited and then the fatal phrase is uttered:

"I don't know how you working mothers do it. I missed my children so much. I could not do this everyday."

It stabs. The intent is almost never malicious. It is an innocent wonder at how such a burden could consistently be borne. The problem with voicing such a thought is not that it isn't reasonable or true. The problem is that it very reasonable and terribly true.

I think I've put my finger on what the "problem" with this vocalization is.  The "problem" is not that it is true and painful.  It's not even that it is an expression of pity; genuine pity is not necessarily negative (although it can be).

Jenny is probably correct that it is not said in malice, but I think she is not correct that it is innocent.  The intent may be unconscious, but here's what underlies "I don't know how you do it:"

It is an othering statement.

If you don't like the slight "buzzwordiness" of the term "othering," you might try substituting the term "invalidation;" it is the same sort of thing, although personally I think the verb "to other" is a quite concise use of the English language to express what is going on here.

Like many other examples of "othering,"  IDKHYDI exists in an ambiguous point on the spectrum between unconscious and intentional.  People do it on purpose, and people do it without realizing it, and there is usually plausible deniability ("I certainly didn't mean it that way, she was reading too much into what I said to her"); so it is impossible both to give careless speakers an appropriate benefit of the doubt and to call people out when they cross the line.  

And so othering goes on, blithely, and no one is willing to do anything about it, because come on, what are you going to do?

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Here is a decently written introduction to "othering:"

By “othering”, we mean any action by which an individual or group becomes mentally classified in somebody’s mind as “not one of us”. Rather than always remembering that every person is a complex bundle of emotions, ideas, motivations, reflexes, priorities, and many other subtle aspects, it’s sometimes easier to dismiss them as being in some way less human, and less worthy of respect and dignity, than we are.

"I don't know how you do it" is precisely a way of dismissing other women.  And yes, it's the same kind of thing as lumping into one group everybody who votes for that other political party.  It's exactly the same thing that creates "death by a thousand cuts" in the workplace, in the community, for people who visibly belong to minority ethnic groups or who have visible disabilities.

It quite literally says:  I am unable to have empathy for you.   

You are so different from me that I am not able to imagine myself walking in your shoes.  I will not make any reference to trying.

It appears to be a compliment:  your abilities are beyond my imagination; but it is in fact a backhanded compliment:  your personhood is beyond my imagination.   

It imagines that your unimaginable skills must be made possible only by the existence of some deficiency:  the working mother must lack a certain maternal love for her children, the mother of numerous closely spaced children must lack self-control or intelligence or self-respect, the parent of disabled children must be somehow "special" herself for God to have sent the children to her.  

(Whatever; it couldn't happen to me, says IDKHYDI, because I, unlike you, am normal, normative, mainstream.)

It says:  You must be different from me in some fundamental way.  You are a different kind of person, because "I could never" be the kind of person who would "do what you do."  

It says:  If I were in your situation, I'd do things differently.  

It might even mean:  I could never get into the situation you've gotten yourself into.  That's why I don't bother to imagine how I would cope:  because I know that I wouldn't get into your situation.  I don't have to imagine how I could do that, because what has happened to you would never happen to me.  I am not the kind of person that you are, the kind of person that would let that happen.

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This is why I say it would be better if I quashed my internal reaction ("of course you don't know how I do it"); the internal reaction is a retaliatory othering, one that says, "Oh, I'm 'the other' to you?  Well, guess what, sister; you're 'the other' to me, and I rather like it that way."

The source I linked above on "othering" is called There Are No Others; it has not been updated in a while, which is too bad, as it seemed like a really good start.  From the same page I linked:

The concept behind this site, then, is that

• a) humans have an undeniable and insidious inclination to engage in “othering” thought patterns for the purpose of self-preservation, and
• b) learning to avoid and counteract these thought patterns is integral to greatly reducing the world’s hatred and suffering.

Our intent is to raise people’s consciousness about othering behaviour, to make them more alert to these thought patterns, and to encourage alternative ways of addressing the problems that we often seek to avoid by dehumanising any one group.

I want to be aware of mental "othering" and "othering" behavior in myself.  It may be true that we naturally do it, as a form of self-preservation and group preservation, naming certain people as our neighbors who are like us and "othering" different people, for safety.  But being human, we are more than natural, and we are called to constantly ask "who is my neighbor?" and acknowledge that the answer is "anyone."  There is no good excuse for dehumanizing anyone, even a little bit.

This might be a good Lenten calling for anyone:  search out the othering, mental and vocal, and search out the invalidation, the defense mechanism. Notice it, and try to root it out wherever it occurs.

Everyone is fully human?

Even those people?

Yep.

Now try to behave as if it is true.