Spark
It is my annual, guilt-free, Mother’s Day coffee shop writing time. In years past, these have been sad days, I’m not sure why, but something about Mother’s Day was depressing to me. Perhaps it’s the being really far away from my own mother. Perhaps it’s the overwhelming amount of things to do and the expectations of excitement. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s being a nauseatingly spoiled and overprivileged girl just being pouty. I’ve been guilty of being that way my entire life. The Princess Of Pout is what my family called me as a child. I’m sorry to say, I am still she.
But I’m not feeling so pitiful today! It’s a wonderful day. My children stayed in their beds until 8 this morning, then still let me rest a little longer. I can’t remember the last time I slept even close to 7 am. Sleep does wonders, did you know? Of course you did, it’s all the news talks about when they talk about mental health as if you have any control over your sleep with young children. But sleep or no sleep, I am the luckiest. Have you seen these girls I made? With a little help from the most remarkable man on planet Earth, with all of his handsomeness and brilliance and strawberry hair, and with our combined lines of Polish, Irish, Scottish, Dutch, and a teeny percentage of Native American ancestry, we have these two absolutely beautiful little girls. Healthy little girls. Two very different varieties of physical features and colors, two very different ways and personalities. There is nothing for me to pout about, they are miracles, and they chose me. I am honored. I get to be the antique vase filled with roses, baby’s breath, wildflowers, and dandelions. Make a wish.
Yesterday was Gloria’s fourth dance recital. I can’t believe that! From her very first two-year-old dance recital with the glorified obstacle course to her shuffle steps and balancés in time, she has found her spot. Yesterday was the stuff my brand of motherhood was made for. Tap, ballet, and jazz, from my Princess Of Pout. My 6-year-old is showing a lot of Marion qualities, bless her heart, and because of this, I’m doing everything in my power to not project everything of me onto her. Her constant talk of embarrassment, her drama, it’s Marion 2.0, but yesterday she got off the stage with the most enthusiasm I’ve ever witnessed from her:
“I WASN’T EMBARRASSED AT ALL! I LOVE BEING ON THE STAGE! I WANT TO BE ON THE STAGE EVERY DAY UNTIL I GET TOO TIRED!”
And while I try to not project onto her, she is a real-life projection screen of my childhood in this moment.
I remember.
A little girl in her mother’s bathroom has her hair set with hot rollers. The softness of a brush gliding Mary Kay pink onto the apples of soft little girl cheeks, blinking on mascara, the distinct smell of aerosol hairspray, and letting it fill every inch of her lungs. The fancy lady-ness of it all.
Waiting in the wings, scratchy sequined costumes, or soft chiffon, giant tulle tutus, or fringe swinging skirts bouncing on thick, taut dance tights, tiptoeing to quiet her tap shoes, or re-tying new ballet slippers, point, flex; the happiest butterflies. Being the shy, bashful girl who stood in corners of birthday parties waiting for mother to pick her up immediately after being dropped off, but walking on stage, fueled by the heat of the bright lights, the dry and grownup feeling of mother’s lipstick as it stretches with a satisfied smile saying “you belong right here.” And her heart.The pure abandon. Losing herself. Feeling like she’s come home.
That is a very distinct memory. And, though this was her fourth recital, this was the first spark. I remember mine, mostly because it never disappeared.
Her dance studio has an incredible company, and their recital was at 6:30. We had a mother-daughter date to see all the big girls perform what they’ve worked so hard for all year long. So many talented young women and girls. So disciplined, so together, beautiful technique, and dancing with real feeling…which, to me, is the whole point of anything artistic, with or without talent.
I do not have a sit-still child. It’s so hard to hold her attention for any amount of time, so I had low expectations for this 2-hour long recital with my squirmy worm, anticipating a swift departure at any moment. The last two rows of the auditorium were empty. Empty rows are safest for a can’t-sit-down kid, but from the first beat, and for the first time that I've ever observed, she was locked in. The 2X5 ft bubble of our portion of the empty second-to-last row became her stage.
She seemed to be drawn most to the lyrical dances, the big feeling songs, with the flowing costumes. When these dances would begin, she’d float out of her seat to mimic the turns, the arabesques, the graceful Port De Bras (Ballet for pretty arm stuff) in her darling 6-year-old confidence. She was a prima ballerina in her mind.
Watching her daydreamy gaze took me back to every major spark of audience inspiration in my life. I was right back, sitting in the audience of the National Theater in Washington D.C. with my mother for the national tour of 42nd Street. I desperately needed to be able to tap like that and nothing was going to stop me after that show; half watching, half plotting how I’d ask my dad to move the cars out of the garage so I could repurpose it into my tap studio, a cassette tape in a 90s boombox, rewind, dance, rewind, repeat to perfection. In watching her, I was back to discovering Broadway Melody of 1940, over and over and over, determined to learn every piece of choreography to Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell’s numbers, wondering why everyone always fussed so hard over Ginger while sleeping on Eleanor Powell’s genius. How had I not heard of her, she was dancing circles around Fred! I was transported to the beginning of YouTube, falling down the rabbit hole of every Faith Hill performance I could find, studying her feel, her phrasing, her believability. This tunnel vision. This was happening right in front of me with my 3 foot-something tiny dancer.
“We can’t show our thumbs in ballet”
“I can do that!”
Yes, you can, baby.
“I can’t do that!”
One day you will, baby!
You’re coming dangerously close to stage mom vibes now, Marion. Chill.
This is tough. We’re entering real kidhood now. She is about to finish Kindergarten, and she reads and writes. She didn’t do much of that a year ago. She’s been visited by the Tooth Fairy three times and has a nice little nest egg in her piggy bank from her silk pillow tooth trades. She mispronounces fewer words, she knows about the planets and dinosaurs, and in some ways, she knows more than I. She has had perfect report cards all year, she’s a person now, not my baby anymore. She’s the exact age you expect to see a pathway carving.
And, as a tribute to my mother on this Mother’s Day, I intend to follow in her footsteps, in the beautiful way she recognized that spark in her children. It was natural. We each had different sparks. My mother was there, providing for our passions, giving us every opportunity and all of the encouragement. In her eyes, we were all remarkable, but she made no excuses for our shortcomings. Never too involved, never too absent, the absolute best combination of there. We were the spark in her eyes, but she never “Myyyyyyy Chiiiiiilddd”ed.
Dance is pretty specific, I remember the stage moms, and they weren’t always kind- particularly to the children who outshone theirs. I don’t like to write that out loud; sort of one of those things you keep to yourself because parenting is so hard, but you know what I mean. We all know those kinds, they exist in the sports world, too. And it’s hard to fault these parents. There is nothing more relatable than the love, and fierce advocacy for our children. It’s so hard to hold ourselves back, so incredibly hard to not hover, to not control; desperately trying to delay our inevitable heartbreak by delaying the growth of their wings. Mostly, it’s so hard to believe that these precious children we carried and birthed and raised are not, in fact, ours. Because they aren’t. It’s such a disservice to our children to feign superiority over other’s children, to never acknowledge fallibility, and never allow them room to fail, or not be the best. No mother is perfect, but my mother knew the balance, always right there cheering us on, being the helper when asked, but never over our shoulders. There was always this silent door open for us to walk out of if we ever lost the passion. It was unspoken, but that space allowed us to explore on our own, to be guided by our own spirits, not her expectations. She held us to a high standard, and expected hard work, but was never pushy. That was the biggest gift I received from my mother; one I pray I can bestow upon my children. She allowed me to grow my wings on their own time, and the second I broke out of the chrysalis and could fly away, she let me. And I’m sure it broke her heart a million ways, but she is why I’ve had the giant life I’ve had. Warts and all.
Helena, my little Leni. I have this whole other child, too. Who is she? Since I’ve done this once before her, I know that I know nothing about her! I didn’t know this with Gloria, she was the center of my entire universe for 4.5 years, yet I’ve learned more about her in the last 6 months than ever before. And now that I really know that I know nothing, I know that I still know nothing about Gloria! Helena is this open, blank notebook, but she brought her own DNA, her own inherent traits that are her nature, the traits that would be hers regardless of nurture. For now, she is pure spirit, an entirely different 17-month-old than Gloria was at 17 months. Feistier.
I hope teachers aren’t still teaching “I before E, except after C”
Helena likes snuggling more, she is big wide open arms, a laid-back kind of love in contrast to her big sister’s introspective feeling love. They’re both brilliant cut diamond faceted, I don’t mean to place them in determined jewelry boxes because they will eventually contradict everything I think with whatever, whomever they become. I don’t know anything about anything. But I think Helena will go with the flow. She’s already had to, she’s the baby. What will spark her? Am I bad for hoping she goes for some of Alex’s passions as we watch Gloria seemingly going for mine? Does a soccer scholarship await Helena? Guitar virtuosity? I looked over at Alex during Gloria’s recital, pride in his eyes, same as mine, but…let’s be real, was he enjoying the program when Gloria wasn’t on stage? I smiled so hard my cheek muscles fatigued; watching every one of these babies watching the teachers doing the dances side stage, intermittently waving to their parents they spotted in the dark audience, lit up like they had the best window seat flying into New York City for the first time at night. I loved their little taps and their baby legs doing flat-footed pas-de-chats. Wonderful Alex, he’s still the brother at his sisters’ dance recitals, no brother to fight, to throw the ball with, to bro-out with, but blessed beyond measure with two sisters with whom he shares the same sense of humor, who adore him, sisters he wouldn’t trade for any brother, of course. And still, I hope he gets to coach a soccer team, or tee ball, or, at the very least, have someone to wear out every Chet Atkins recording with.
I didn’t have an agenda when I came here to this sort of local, sort of franchised coffee shop this morning. I like this space, PJs coffee in Hattiesburg, MS. It’s part of a franchise founded in New Orleans, but it’s the only one here. I’ll admit, I typically prefer mom-and-pop, non-chain establishments, but I have found in all my coffee shop explorations all over this beautiful world, that if your business has just enough ambiance, with an emphasis on kindness and friendliness, and a cup of coffee served without the side of snobbery, that’s all you need. All that I need, rather. PJs has that, and they always get the perfect ratio of iced coffee to full-fat cream, no sugar. They’ll always get my few dollars for that and their kindness. That’s the long way around saying that I have truly enjoyed these ninety minutes here alone, with my coffee and milk, streaming my Mother’s Day consciousness. I’m so thankful for my balanced, encouraging, loving mother and all the times she hot-rolled my hair for dance recitals, who still lets me sneak into her jewelry box and try on her fancy stones like I’m still a little girl playing dress up. I’m so thankful for her lessons in motherhood as I embark on this new journey in balanced parenting. I’m thankful for all the times she made me say kind things to strangers when I was so shy, all the times she thanked shopkeepers when exiting establishments, for her fun terms of endearment she’d call me and all of my friends, “Tweedle” “Hunnybunch.” Mostly for how fiercely she loves.
I’m thankful for my supportive, never judgmental, and loving, full of sparkle mother-in-law. My sisters and sisters-in-law whose mothering inspires me and makes my love for them grow and grow as I see their children blossom in the light of their love. My husband who gave me the gift of becoming Mother, who accepts me for whatever version I present him with each day, each hour.
Stream of consciousness, maybe I don’t always need to share the odd innards with people on the internet, but is it maybe a tree falling in the woods? This love from every corner; thank you.