This is the finale of my recital posts. Little did I know one little recital was going to be so NOT LITTLE. It definitely warrants three posts. (It probably warrants three hundred posts.)
Okay, so here's the deal. We registered Mary for dance through our little town's rec department. It was dirt cheap. Even after shoes and tights and (pricey!) costumes, it was still very very affordable. So affordable, in fact, that we went ahead and signed Mary up for both ballet and tap (and she wanted to do both). No big deal. Low price would naturally mean low key, right?
No, no. Not at all, my friends. The teacher, Miss Diane, is very experienced (as both a professional dancer and instructor) and very no-nonsense. The goal is not to create warm fuzzies or nurture some innate love of movement. It's to put on a fabulous production. The students begin working on their dance for the recital on day one. Except for one time, parents are not allowed to watch. Ever. Hair up, tights on: The little girls in Mary's classes were expected to listen, follow directions, and learn. From practicing brush steps, to measuring for costumes, to perfecting second position, to memorizing a final pose--this was serious business.
If I knew then what I know now, I would not have signed her up. But I'm so glad I didn't know then what I know now...because I'm so, so pleased we did it!
I'll tell you why. First, let me show you some pictures...
This is Mary rushing off to the recital. We were running late, of course. (As usual, I completely underestimated how long it takes to do hair and makeup. She was a good sport and stayed calm even as I was not.)
I adore this picture. Look at that sweet girl.
My favorite moment was when I sneaked backstage to make sure she was in the right place. She saw me and immediately wrapped her arms tightly around my neck. I think it was the "realest" hug she's ever given me. Mary is emotionally demonstrative--but the emotion she is showing is usually covering up the emotion she's really feeling, or refusing to feel. It's not often that I get a glimpse right to her core. This hug said, "I am nervous and a little scared and I need your reassurance, but I am also okay and I am strong and I will do this and you do not need to worry about me." I felt both her vulnerability and her strength. I also knew that she knew that I loved her. And she loved me too. (If it takes a tutu and an audience of hundreds to have a moment like that...well, I'll take it!)
The recital--appropriately themed Fright Nite, having been scheduled for Friday the 13th--consisted of 20 numbers with over 150 dancers! This thing was big! The show opened with the advanced jazz group. And next up was Mary's ballet class. The littlest ballerinas are always a crowd-pleaser. (And you only have one year, maybe two when your kid can be in the littlest group. So cute!) I was swooning when I spotted Mary on that big stage in front of all those people.
She was confident and serious, and her performance was perfect! (She's come a long way, baby.) I was so proud of her for doing something hard. I thought I was going to levitate or lose consciousness or sprout tears--that's how proud I was. I was clearly not emotionally prepared.
I was also not prepared in other ways. I forgot the extra safety pins (a must, since the girls are literally pinned into their costumes), as well as makeup for touch-ups. I also broke a cardinal rule and did not bring extra tights. (No fear: I scrounged up two safety pins. Hooray for Nars blush and Lancome lipstick for going the whole distance, no touch ups required! And Mary did not get a run in her tights. Phew!) After I successfully managed the costume change, Mary gave me a few more of those wonderful hugs. I knew I had earned her trust: I hadn't burned her with the curling iron; I'd used lots of pins to keep her bow in, just as Miss Diane had advised; I finally learned how to put her spider tutu on the right way and cross the straps in back just so. This was all way out of my comfort zone. But I didn't utterly fail my daughter! Woo hoo! Not failing feels good.
So does spying your lovely little girl backstage.
(What is it about dancers backstage? That Degas guy was onto something.)
Her second performance was perfect. The best she's ever done. (Even under all that pressure!)
Ta-duh!
So, dance class was not a warm and fuzzy experience. It was work. She was learning a dance, not to dance. Also, the recital was a big pain in the rear--with hair and costumes and dress rehearsals and the performance itself, which was almost 3 hours long! But it was worth it.
Mary got to be part of something big and special...
She was mature enough (and has the right personality) to listen to her teacher, follow instructions, learn, and practice practice practice. It wasn't easy. (It also wasn't painful or especially hard--she's only 4, folks, and no matter how big the stage, this was still rec department dance.) But it pushed her just a little, stretched her just enough. It was hard...enough. So that she felt such a sense of accomplishment. She could see all the elements and practice come together in a big, special performance. (With the whole community! We love being a part of our community. Our town is just the right size.)
She did something hard. I didn't shield her from it. (Isn't there a part of you that wants to "protect" your child from anything hard or challenging or potentially disappointing?) She stood on stage in front of hundreds of people and remembered her dance steps. And she did it twice.
We are so proud of her. We committed her to something difficult, and she did it. With grace and maturity.
We love this girl! I am hyper-aware of the things my kids CAN'T do, trust me. It was nice to have an evening to celebrate something Mary can do.
And how about a shout out to her brother? Who sat through a three hour dance recital! (He actually really enjoyed it--but it was still a test of endurance. He did originally have a nice button-up shirt on, but that was gone by the third dance. In his defense, it was a bit stuffy.) David was proud of Mary too. He had been worried about being embarrassed for her (like last time), but this time there was nothing to worry about (except "When is this thing going to end?!?"). Thank you, David, for being a supportive big brother, even when it's hard.
So there you have it. I feel like I have been formally initiated as a mother of a daughter. (Really, I feel like this was more of a rite of passage for me than for Mary.) And I'm grateful for that.
It's time to start being comfortable having a daughter. (Especially since I have a pretty fabulous one, if I do say so myself.) I don't have any sisters. I was raised by a down-to-earth, no-fuss mother, who was raised by a pragmatic, even less-fuss mother. Hair bows and eyeliner and big productions of any sort are out of my comfort zone. My discomfort is so severe that I harbor the irrational fear that if I curl Mary's hair once, the next thing you know, she'll be starring on Toddlers and Tiaras.
Which is why, had I known the amount of sequins involved in these dance classes, I would not have mailed in the check. But, you know what, if sequins and safety pins allow my daughter to experience a sense of accomplishment, and give us an opportunity to grow closer as mother and daughter, then I'm okay with it. (In moderation, of course...don't expect to see her on TLC anytime soon.)
Love you, Bear.
P.S. Thus the dance chapter in Mary's life closes, at least for quite a while. She wants to do gymnastics this summer. And next school year she'll be in school full-day, so we're going to cut out evening activities. Another reason I'm glad we did it this year--while we could.
