My oldest child is in another professional play. She’s having a good season, it must be said. She had just finished one play when she started rehearsals for the next gig. Like seriously, the very next day. And she’s been spending HOURS downtown at rehearsal. My life, for the next two months, is chaffeusing. (I made that word up, I’m very proud of it, and I like how it sounds way more than what it means). In fact, our communal schedule is so bananas, we gave her a phone. And yes, the fact that I am now the kind of parent who gives a ten-year-old (almost eleven) a phone is horrifying. In fairness, it’s not hers to keep, it’s just so that when I drop her off in front of the theater, double-parked in heavy traffic with the blinkers on, my throat hoarse from cursing the other drivers on the way downtown, she can run out and text me from the fourth floor, “Hey Mommy” – she still calls me ‘mommy,’ the darling, darling girl – “I made it. I’m safe. I’ll see you at 9.” Actually, her first morning with the phone she texted me three times, saying “Mommy, I love you so so so much.” Frankly, I don’t know why we didn’t give her one ages ago. I need the affirmation.
Anyway. Yesterday the director and the children’s director and the stage managers were kind enough to meet with the clueless parents to try to explain the mysteries of producing a show. I had 82 questions about how to read the call sheet, explaining who is expected at rehearsal when. If Riley isn’t cast there again, I’m sure it will be my fault. “The kid is great, but that mom is pretty dim – I have serious concerns about the gene pool…” I appreciated the director’s honesty as he explained that while he hopes that the kids have a good experience, it isn’t his paramount goal…that putting on the very best production they can is of primary importance. And then he thanked us. HE thanked US…for letting them have our kids, and for driving, and for shifting schedules and all the rest. He has a two-year-old, he said, so he isn’t there yet, but he recognizes how difficult the demands of the show will be. It was a nice gesture, but here’s what I would have said if I hadn’t been on my best behavior.
“Are you effing kidding me? Listen, your kid is two, so you’re stuck playing with Little People and watching Backyardigans and running around trying to make sure she doesn’t kill herself, so you don’t know this yet, but let me tell you something. Watching your kid discover what she loves is one of the most magnificent experiences a parent can have. Seeing her be good at that thing is sublime. And if she has success at that thing that she loves and is good at? That is one of the most profound joys you can have, I think. At least it is for me.
My daughter has come home from rehearsal every day glowing. Seriously, she is glowing, like an alien or an angel. Her happiness wells up from her toes and explodes out of her mouth in happy chatter all the way home. She is delirious to go to rehearsal and disappointed when she doesn’t. And this magic is not just stagecraft. She’s so happy and confident, she’s doing things she’s never done before, like scoring goals in soccer, and walking home by herself from the store. She even likes school a little bit now, which hasn’t been the case since kindergarten. So thank you. Thank YOU. Thank you for the opportunity, and for recognizing the pure gold from which my daughter’s heart is fashioned. You have excellent taste, and I promise, she’s way smarter than I am.”
Pearl S. Buck said that “Growth itself contains the germ of happiness.” I think sometimes in this parenting business we fail to see that. Family life is challenging and growing pains hurt, duh. The minutia of day-to-day life can be pretty soul-sucking. So I am so freaking grateful for this tsunami of joy that has entered our household. I’m gonna dive in and enjoy the ride.
“And, the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss all. In the joy of the actors lies the sense of any action.” Robert Louis Stevenson
So an old friend posted two articles from The New Republic on Facebook today. In one, the author says “don’t make your kids play an instrument or take ballet.” In the other, a different author says “make your kids play an instrument,” skipping ballet all together. Mr. Con says that classical music and ballet lessons are a giant waste of time, because they don’t teach the student any practical skills she’ll take into adulthood. Mr. Pro says you should study music to commune with musical deities like Bach, and to be part of a centuries old tradition. I don’t agree with either of them.
Full disclosure – I met that Facebook friend way too long ago at a high school music camp, where it’s fair to say that we shared one of the most sublime musical experiences of our lives before or since as we rehearsed the 4th and 5th movements of Schubert’s Trout Quintet. (Schubert wrote it when he was 22, which produces the same kind of distress in me as the fact that Keats was only 25 when he died. But that’s an aside…we all have issues).
So yeah, I studied cello. I started when I was 11 or so and played through high school and college, and unlike the anti-music lesson author, I still play it. Mostly when I’m helping my son with his violin lesson, but sometimes when I’m looking for something to do, I take out my dog-eared copy of Bach’s Unaccompanied Cello Suites and make like I’m Pablo Casals. I also play the violin a little bit, the piano a little bit more and the guitar pretty badly. And I’m looking forward to starting the viola with my youngest daughter this afternoon when we go to her very first Suzuki viola lesson. In the interests of being thorough, I’ll tell you that I also sing in a church choir, and cantor at two different churches, sing the occasional wedding and perform with two different rock bands. You might be getting the picture that music is pretty damn important to me.
But wait! I haven’t told you about ballet yet! I started when I was six. I was supposed to begin at five, but I broke my arm standing on a folding chair that folded – kids, don’t try that at home! – so I started in first grade once I got my cast off. I danced seriously until I was 18. I performed with my town’s professional ballet company in countless productions of The Nutcracker. I continued to take ballet lessons in college, but I also discovered other forms of dance there, and when, after I graduated, I realized that directors would hire me to dance in musical theater, it was like I had found the holy grail, combining as it did both music and dance. I am not exaggerating when I say that my twenties were filled with music and dance, and that I would not trade those memories for all the world, nor would I give up the friendships I forged doing those shows.
I will admit that I have an uneasier relationship with ballet than I do with music – I have some injuries now that I’m 40-something that I blame on dance, and I worked through some fairly gnarly body image stuff that I also blame on ballet. However, I am one hard-working and disciplined mother (no, really, I’m a mother) and I credit ballet with that too. And my confidence! Come on, I used to prance around on stage regularly in little more than my underwear – what can possibly embarrass or cow me now? And I still take an occasional dance class, just to kick the cobwebs off.
So where do I shake out on this issue for my kids? Well, all three of them study an instrument, and they will continue to do so until they no longer reside under my roof. I’m lucky so far in that no one wants to quit yet. I don’t know whether any of them possess any real musical talent. How could I know? They’re 10, 8 and 6. There aren’t all that many musical prodigies out there – there are way more people who work and work and work and get better incrementally. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’m not expecting to raise the next Joshua Bell here. My children take music lessons because music is a central part of the human experience, something that binds us together and sets us apart from other animals. They study music to learn discipline, and hard work. They play music with each other to realize that working together, disparate people can achieve a thing of beauty. In fact, they play instruments to create beauty, to put beauty into our broken, often ugly world. Surely that last in and of itself is enough of a reason. And contrary to Mr. Con, I believe that they will take all of that into adulthood, whether they continue to play the same instruments, or whether they pick up the guitar and the ukelele instead, or whether they stop playing all together. And as far as Mr. Pro goes, well, I don’t actually think it’s carrying on the classical musical tradition that’s the point either. If my violinist wants to start fiddling in a bluegrass band, that’s fantastic. If my pianist wants to switch to jazz, that’s awesome too. If the soon-to-be-violist wants to find some way to funk that up, well, good luck kid, but by all means, go for it.
And with regard to dance, my youngest takes ballet and tap, although not at the professional ballet school I attended. My mother was horrified by the bootie-shaking at the spring recital, but Lucy loved all of it, and truthfully, so did I. The oldest used to take ballet, but asked to stop when she was in second grade. I was okay with that, although I told the aspiring actress that dance would help her move well on stage. She’s asked to go back to it this year. All three of the kids took a hip-hop class this summer too, and we all faithfully watch So You Think You Can Dance every week it’s on, which inevitably leads to a family dance-off. Again, I’m not aiming for Barishnikov here, but dance is a great form of exercise, and like I said, I attribute my work ethic and persistence to my years of ballet training. I love dance, in all its forms, and like music, with which it is so closely aligned, dance is one of the things that separates us from the rest of the animal world, something that elevates us, sometimes literally! toward the divine. Listen, either you believe that the arts have intrinsic value on their own, or you’re dumb. I mean, or you don’t.
So I’m staring down the barrel of years and years of chauffering the kids to various music and dance lessons, let alone sports, (how would we feel about an article that said, “don’t make your kids play sports?” I wonder if there’d be a different reaction?) and I don’t dread it all. I’m glad to do it. Even though it may not seem like it during those first screechy string lessons, or tentative tendus, they’re already artists, and they’re creating beauty…and like Keats said, at age 23, “‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”
Now We Are Six – A.A. Milne
When I was one I had just begun
When I was two I was nearly new
When I was three I was hardly me
When I was four I was not much more
When I was five I was just alive
But now I am six, I’m as clever as clever;
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.
How can Lucy be six? Six isn’t little kid anymore. Six is just kid, kid. Six needs two hands to show her age. Six reads chapter books. Six plays on a soccer team. Six takes viola lessons. Six eats lunch at school. Maybe Six makes the bed? I miss you Five, but I love you even more, Six.
We celebrated our twelfth wedding anniversary on Sunday, so that means it’s been 12 years since 9/11/01. There are lots of posts about 9/11 on my Facebook feed this morning, prayers for peace, and “I will never forget” badges and the like. Me, I’m going to be spending the day trying to get organized for the kindergarten party on Saturday, getting the Battle of the Books stuff done, and paying bills. I think that’s ok. Life goes on.
I was in Arizona over the weekend. It was 80 bazillion degrees the day we got there – the heat was so intense as soon as we got off the plane, it felt like being punched in the gut. The desert is beautiful, albeit not beautiful in the way my Wisconsin soul typically imagines beautiful. We climbed a mountain, a little one anyway, on Saturday morning. I took pictures of every cactus I saw, fascinated by their foreignness. On Saturday night it rained, just a little, and by Sunday morning, the brown and seemingly barren mountain was green. It had exploded with life in the space of 24 hours.
I think we humans are the same way. Give us half a chance, and like the desert with that tiny bit of rain, we won’t just choose life, we’ll seize it. There are moments when life seems fragile, but paradoxically, it’s tenacious at the same time. We’re tenacious. We have to be.
So here we are, 12 years on, and our country is considering military action in Syria. I don’t have the answer. (Wouldn’t that be awesome if I did? Middle-aged suburban housewife solves Syria question. Sigh.) All I can tell you is what I’m trying to do, what I’m trying to teach my children to do: Choose life. Choose peace. Grow.
Tom Hanks famously said “There’s no crying in baseball” in the 1992 movie “A League of Their Own.” Well, I’m here to tell you that’s not exactly true. It’s possibly a prepositional problem. There has been plenty of crying over baseball Chez Belfry today. There has been crying about baseball. There has been crying concerning baseball. Here’s what happened.
My eight-year-old son, the one who wakes up and reads about baseball in the newspaper every morning, the one who has spent all summer playing baseball, the one who goes to bed listening to baseball, the one who is absolutely convinced that he will be a Major League Baseball player when he grows up, ideally for the Brewers of course, tried out for a club-level team on Sunday. And today, after three of the longest days of my life, (“Mommy! Did you get an email yet? What about now? Can you check again?”) he gave up hope that he made the team. (Note to The Powers That Be – go ahead and send an email to the kids that don’t make the team too. Don’t just make them wait. Seriously. They’re eight. Henry said at dinner tonight, “well, maybe there’s still a chance?” It’s bordering on child cruelty, you guys.)
Henry, a pretty practical kid, asked me what his chances were the night before he tried out. “Well, you have no chance if you don’t try,” I said, copping out.
“But do you think I’ll make it?” he asked earnestly and seriously and thoughtfully, the way he asks all questions.
I looked into his sweet face. “I don’t know, Henry,” I said. “Of course you have a chance.” I paused, wondering how honest I should be. “But you’re not the fastest, or the hardest hitter.” His face fell. “Wait, listen. What you are is the hardest worker…the most determined…the stubbornest. I love that about you…but it might be hard for the coaches to see in an hour-long tryout.”
Well, they didn’t. And he didn’t. And I had to tell him.
I hated telling him he didn’t make it…because I wasn’t just telling him he didn’t make a baseball team. I was telling him that the world is a little less shiny than he thought. I was telling him life is hard, and sometimes you can want something with all of your heart and still not get it. I was telling him that I’m not actually magic – I can’t make all of his hurts go away with a kiss and a hug anymore. It’s a lesson we all learn eventually – I’m not sure I learned it at age eight, but Henry sure has.
I do have to tell you what happened next though, especially since I’ve written about Henry and sportsmanship before here. This morning after finding out his good buddy made the team and he didn’t, Henry swallowed hard and said, “Way to go Mason. Good job.” And you know what they did this afternoon? They played ball, the way they have all summer long, and the way they will for many summers to come, I hope.
But I’m sorry, sometimes there will be crying in baseball.
I had Children’s Liturgy of the Word today, and why that always happens the morning after a late night, I do not know. I was grateful though, because as I drank a few cups of coffee and looked over the readings for today, I had a new thought about today’s gospel story about Mary and Martha.
Jesus entered a village
where a woman whose name was Martha welcomed him.
She had a sister named Mary
who sat beside the Lord at his feet listening to him speak.
Martha, burdened with much serving, came to him and said,
“Lord, do you not care
that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving?
Tell her to help me.”
The Lord said to her in reply,
“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.
There is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part
and it will not be taken from her.”
I’m such a Martha. I recently saw a sign somewhere, probably Pinterest, the source of all stress, that said “Good moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens and happy kids.” I’m a terrible mom by that yardstick! I can’t abide a mess. Can’t we all be happy in a nice clean and tidy house? In fact wouldn’t we be happiER in one?
Anyway. The same goes for today’s gospel – I always find myself sympathizing with Martha. I’m certain that Martha made Jesus and Mary and the other guests more comfortable with her efforts. I’m sure that she fed them well and saw to their needs. You can just tell. And I’ve always felt like Jesus was saying in the story that Martha shouldn’t have done that stuff and should have sat and listened with Mary. But today I wondered if maybe I’ve been reading it wrong. I think Jesus rebuked Martha not for doing the serving, her job, but for not valuing it, for not recognizing her contributions.
Well, and maybe a little for being a whiner.
It’s a question I get asked a fair amount. How can you stay in the Church, after the child abuse scandal? when they won’t ordain women? with their stance on homosexuality/health care/contraception?
I sometimes feel like I’m targeted in a special way since I’m a political liberal, and that’s supposed to make me above religion, or beyond it, or something.
I answer that question differently based on the questioner, the day, and maybe especially, my mood, but today my answer would for sure be “the personnel.”
I was sitting with my oldest child before her audition. She was calmly flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine, (and how do I have a child old enough to care about fashion magazines?) and I was freaking out. Not outwardly of course. Outwardly I was able to maintain some semblance of cool thanks to a miracle of multitasking, as I both looked at these shoes, that bag and especially this nail polish, and simultaneously offered up prayers to Saints Genesius, Vitus and Cecilia.
Genesius was a 4th century Roman actor who was performing in a play satirizing Christian baptism when he himself felt the truth of what he was mocking and converted on the spot. Unfortunately the emperor Diocletian was not amused and ordered his execution. Talk about a bad review. Ba dum bum.
Vitus was also executed by Diocletian as it turns out. He wasn’t a performer himself, but became known as the patron of dancers when a cult from the Middle Ages prayed by dancing before his statue. Rather more unfortunately, it also gave his name to a neurological disorder, but nobody’s perfect.
Cecilia is the patroness of music and musicians, also a martyr, and the most well-known of the three I expect. However, I didn’t know until just now that she wasn’t a musician herself, but rather she heard “heavenly music” in her heart. The dates aren’t right for that music to have been J.S. Bach, but whatever. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Anyway, I passed the fifteen minutes before my daughter went in for her audition, and the half an hour it took until it was over, saying a few prayers, researching who Saints Genesius, Vitus and Cecilia were, and writing this post. I texted my Jewish husband, asking him, “What do non-Catholics do in situations like this?” He ignored me, being well practiced in that art. But seriously, I was so grateful to have some company while I waited. And there is a saint for every situation and every occasion, always there for the asking. Before I knew it, she was done, it was over, and I had only sprouted two or three new grey hairs.
So you can keep your lonely religions, and your no religions. That’s totally fine by me, I promise! Me, I’m too much of a basketcase. I need at least a saint a day – look, today I needed three in the space of 45 minutes! So I’m a Catholic. Check in with me a different day and I’ll give you a different reason.
This one is from deep, deep in the archives. Seriously, it’s twenty years old. And other than the fact that I am now one of those “matrons” rushing around, the horror! my opinion hasn’t changed in the slightest.
In summer, every neighborhood has one perfect porch, one place to which the whole flock of friends migrates. Perhaps it is the coolest, being conveniently shaded on three sides by artfully planted trees. Perhaps it is the most comfortable, boasting two easy chairs, a sofa, AND a hammock. Or perhaps it is the most central, the point where all the radii converge and no one is more than five minutes away. Most likely it is a combination thereof, with an indefinable x-factor thrown in to confuse the issue. It has something to do with whose porch it is, although one is never quite certain to whom the perfect porch belongs. Somewhere in the menagerie of sun-browned skin, sweaty limbs holding sweatier beer bottles, and plastic debris from a carton of flavor-ice popsicles, lurks a host or at least someone who answers the phone, but it is enough that the porch be provided, and questions of ownership are relatively unimportant, as are questions of aesthetics. Some of the most perfect porches I have known were much less appetizing than the Better Homes and Gardens model across the way, yet that one porch on the block always attracts a gathering of friends, no matter how homely it is.
Porch utopia has something to do with the way lazy talk, and lazier silence, float on the fan-made breeze; the way people drop by to say, “hi,” and six hours later bashfully shuffle down the steps, mockingly shouting to one another, “what a waste of a day/afternoon/evening,” all the while aware that they will be back tomorrow. This is no gathering of stiff-assed matrons who wait to be offered tea before politely declining and rushing off to the next destination on their list of things to do. This is summer in a college town, and none of us has anything better to do, or any place better to be, than the front porch.
My ten-year-old had lice during Easter break. It was kind of funny actually, by which I mean not funny at all, but rather skin-crawlingly gross. But I did have to laugh when I described it to a friend as “biblical” and then went, “No seriously, it’s biblical! Lice was one of the plagues during the Passover.” So Riley’s timing continues to be impeccable.
Anyway, we had a good decade of kids before having lice in the house, so I feel like we had a pretty decent run. Riley found a louse right before bedtime on the Wednesday before Easter. Sam ran out to get stuff to deal with it. I’m pretty crunchy, but when he called from the store asking whether he should get a treatment with or without harsh chemicals, I yelled into the phone, “We’re going nuclear here, Sam!” I hate to toot my own horn, which is awkward for a blog-writer, but I quickly became a lice expert, and while I can’t guarantee my methodology for anyone else, it certainly worked for us.
This blog post wasn’t meant to be about lice, but in case you have to deal with it, here’s what I did. I used the nuclear-strength treatment, which annihilated all the living lice in her hair. This was the worst step by far, one. because it was really expletive disgusting combing dead bugs out of my child’s hair, and two, because the chemicals are really strong and they hurt her scalp and stung her eyes. Then I combed out all the eggs using a special lice comb and the crunchy organic non-chemical lice treatment. Then, and this was my own innovation, I flat-ironed her hair. I just thought, “What can it hurt? I’m going to try and fry those expletives.” The next morning, I went through with the comb and the crunchy stuff again, and then the flat-iron again, and by the next morning she was lice-free.
Ok, back to the regularly scheduled blog post. This whole process took a really long time, and since we started at bedtime, Riley was up really, really late that first night. She was weeping with exhaustion, but she’s such a good kid, she couldn’t help but see the humor in the situation. She’d cry a little, and then crack a joke, like “Oh, no big deal, my mom is just combing dead bugs out of my hair at 11 pm. Hair’s dead anyway, so she’s combing dead bugs out of my dead hair.” I was DYING, she was so funny. Come to think of it, I may have been a little slappy too, but I think I probably would have done what I did anyway, even if I hadn’t been. Poor Riley sat there in the bathroom, while I picked through her hair for nits, and she was so unhappy…I said to her, “Riley, this is why God invented swearing.”
“Mommy, God didn’t invent swearing.”
“Fine, this is why people invented swearing, and God invented people, so basically God invented swearing.” This is of course terrible logic, and will probably get me into horrible trouble later on with my steel-trap-mind of a daughter, but as I’ve said, it was late…and gross. “So which swear words do you know?”
Her brown eyes, squinty with tiredness, opened wide. “The “s” one?” she asked.
“Let it rip,” I said.
“SHIT!!!!!” she hollered, and fell apart giggling. “Oh my gosh Mommy, that felt amazing!”
And like that, my daughter learned a little more about the power of the spoken language, and the timing of a good four-letter word. So, you know, I’m teaching the important stuff over here.