I wanted her to be prepared for the lights, the hair, the makeup, the costume…so I started all of this prep a month out. I bought her new tights, a backup pair, a new makeup bag filled with her own essentials, and begin putting her hair up in the requisite ‘two buns’ as her school had instructed us for several classes beforehand so that she wouldn’t fuss about it on recital day.
I videoed the rehearsal in case we had a chance to review it and practice at home.
[No, honestly, I did. I was only going to break it out
in case she was asking to dance and practice.]
I beamed with pride when she made her entrance.
My cheeks hurt whenever she made a move.
I blushed and gushed when any other mother complimented me on her ‘buns’ and I got to explain my special secret on how they were built.
I giggled when she started telling her grandmothers that ‘mascara’ is ‘the one essential.’
And I sweated. When another mother asked me to watch her child while she got her elderly parents seated.
And I felt a call to action. When a fellow dance mom explained to me that if we help corral the girls backstage we would be allowed to sit in the front row during our daughters’ performance.
And I had a mini panic. When the dance teacher told me that she needed another ‘volunteer mom’ to help watch another class of girls.
And my back ached. As I proceeded to sit on a high school hallway floor letting the girls take turns sitting on my lap and playing my iPad.
And I choked up. When, stalling for time, I asked my daughter and one of her classmates to do an arabesque and pique for me and THEY DID.
And I could barely breathe.
When I saw my daughter dance. on stage. for the very first time.
With a smile on her face.
And an understanding that everyone was watching her.
[kinda hoping it's only the beginning...]