Prima Ballerina

Every so often, I am reminded that there are some things in life that I consider to be earth-shatteringly important, and are really only sort of "so-so" or "ho-hum" to my kids.

Take, for example, Elizabeth's upcoming ballet performance at the Claremont Club. She has been taking weekly "Princess Ballet" classes with other little girls ages 3-5 (or so). She seems to just love it; I mean, what little girl doesn't enjoy skipping, twirling, jumping, and just being otherwise cute and adorable in a girly sort of way? Sign Elizabeth right up ... she loves this stuff! She's into the leotards, the ballet tights, and even the fluffy, pink tutu that she is to wear at the holiday show that is annually produced at the Club.

This afternoon was the one and only dress rehearsal for what is to be a pretty low-key performance of a toddler version of "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy." I picked Elizabeth up from day care a bit early so that we'd be on time for her 3:00 call. We changed her into her pink leotard and tights while still at school. I could tell, though, that something was amiss. In the middle of her wardrobe change, she proclaimed, "I'm scared!"

"Oh, that's why we have rehearsals, sweetie! And mommy will be right there the whole time. Let's see how this goes."

Then, she began to freak out about the tights. "Those are slippery!" she proclaimed, noting that the tights I had just pulled on her legs were the type with feet (not without). "You'll have your ballet shoes, and you won't slip. Heck, I'll even carry you, honey," I promised.

We made it to the car which, by the way, has a busted steering pump as of this morning. I navigated the buggy to the Claremont Club, and after a few moments we found the right meeting location. I could tell we were in the right place given the sea of pink tutus that were whirling about the tent set up on the lower tennis courts.

Miss Jessika, their beautiful ballet teacher, has the patience of a saint, and  happily called for all of her ballerinas to come to the stage. Elizabeth wouldn't budge from my lap. I coaxed. I pleaded. I begged. I slightly threatened. I negotiated. She continued to just say, "I want mommy!"

No amount of convincing her that I would never be more than 10 feet from her worked. Miss Jessika cajoled Elizabeth to the stage, but Elizabeth plopped her tutu-ed fanny right at the edge of the stage, close to where she could keep an eye on me the whole time.

One by one, the other ballerinas tried out their very short little routine.  I felt pangs of both anxiety and guilt as I silently willed Elizabeth to snap out of her funk and get dancing. Miss Jessika even carried Elizabeth around with her for a few moments, hoping that Elizabeth would get acclimated to the stage, the lights, and the view of the audience from the front of the room.

No dice. My ballerina was not going to perform/practice today, and that was all there was to it.

Needless to say, like every stereotypical stage mother, I got angry and impatient with her. Once practice was over, I took her over to the side of the room/tent/performance area and got her back into her street clothes, telling her how I was so very, very disappointed in her and how I would never have gotten away with such behavior at her age, and how if she doesn't want to do the show tomorrow she should tell me, and how I was going to tell Grandma Josie not to bother to come ... and ... and ...

She cried and cried.

And I felt like a creep.

All the while I was venting my frustrations on her, a small voice in the back of my head kept asking me the obvious question: Is this so important? Really? Who cares if she goes on stage and has a meltdown? Pretty much all three year olds do, and still they are the HIT of any dance recital or show that they are in.

I looked at my dainty little girl in front of me, who only wanted more hugs and kisses and kept saying, "I'm sorry mommy. I'm so sorry." In my arms I had the epitome of absolute perfection wrapped up in a small child. And I'm getting on her case because she was guilty of only being a little girl. She's just a little girl.

We got back into car and headed back to her school. I took several deep breaths. "Elizabeth," I said, "how will we wear your hair tomorrow night?"

"In a BUN!" she happily exclaimed!

"Right, and do you want mommy to do your hair or Miss Jessika?"

"Miss Jessika!"

"And did you see the pretty crown you get to wear in your hair with your costume?"

"Lemme see!"

I agreed that she could see the small tiarra if she briefly showed me some of her ballet moves once we got to school. There, in the parking lot of the Claremont Presbyterian Children's Center, Elizabeth did a twirl, a curtsey, and blew kisses (at least three of the five steps in the routine). I smiled at the beauty that is my daughter, and showed my little angel the crown she is so worthy of.

So, I go back to my original question of: who is this most important for, anyway? The kid? Or the parents? I cringe at the thought of parents on the sidelines of their kids sporting events, screaming at them for any ball not caught, yard not run, goal not made, etc. I have always sworn to never, ever be like that with my kids. And yet, today, I jumped right in to "Mommy Behaving Badly" mode.

My challenge is to be okay with my beautiful three year old's stage debut being however it is she needs it to be. It's not for me. It's for her. I have to remember that I'm just there to be her biggest fan on the face of the earth. Pictures of her recital - the good, the bad, and the silly - will hopefully be posted to this blog soon.