My daughter took a 5 day dance camp a couple of years ago. I was so excited for her. I myself had always wanted to take dance lessons. But we lived in a small town 30 miles from the nearest dance studio. Today it would not stretch the imagination to drive so far for dance lessons. But back in the 70's it would have been unheard of.
So we bought an inexpensive pair of tap shoes, ballet practice slippers, and a leotard and tutu. She looked so sweet in her leotard. Her little pot belly protruding ever so slightly.
Every morning we would get up and I would style her hair into a cute pony do that would keep it under control. We packed her little bag with things she would need at camp. All her dance shoes, socks, extra clothes, and a snack (to keep the energy level up).
The camp included instruction in ballet, tap, and gymnastics. After the 5 days there would be a recital where the girls would showcase what had been learned.
So the day of the recital came. Randy and I both took off of work to attend the event.
There they were, nine little girls each wearing their dance leotards mom had helped them choose. Nine little hands waving frantically to nine sets of moms and dads and various assorted grandparents. It really does'nt get much more adorable than that.
The lights went down on the audience, the music began, cameras began flashing, and nine little girls began to dance.
My heart sang at the sight of my sweet little angel. There she was on the stage, a ballarina. I had a fantasy of being a ballarina from the first moment I had seen the Nutcracker performed on public tv. Here was my beautiful daughter fulfilling that fantasy for me. In my minds eye, I could see her twirling and pliaing to the symphony at Carnegie Hall. My eyes welled with tears of joy as I watched my baby on that stage. I took a deep breath, wiped the tears from my eyes and returned from my future fantasy to the reality of the moment. Nine little girls dancing off step as if they were marionettes, their strings being pulled by some uncooridinated dance puppeteer at stage left.
Each girl had her eyes glued to the instructor, each pirrouette, each plie was performed with little finesse. They tapped and pirrouetted and performed feats of gymnastics in choreographed chaos.
I heard the quiet sniffles of mothers all around me. And it was at that moment that I realized why my mother always had that teary eyed look after every performance we went to when I was a child. I knew then, that it is a mothers inherrent ability to see beyond the clumsy off-step to the prima dona behind. To hear each flat note, and block it out and hear the lilting melody of a future diva. To see each A on the report card as an indication of the genious that lies within.
So the next time you are attending a function where children are performing, bring along some extra tissue. Share them with the mom next to you. She will be ever so grateful.
when i think of my child hood I remember it so differently than say...it actually was. Hope in ballet. me on the cheer squad.
