I’m sitting in the dank kitchen in a church basement waiting for my
daughter’s latest class to finish. Irish dancing. It seemed like a good
idea, good for her coordination, great excercise, lively music,and none
of the weight issues and structure of ballet.
My daughter started with the rest of the class of absolute beginners,
none of them knew a single step in September. Now most of the girls are
picking it up very well and a few are exceptional. My daughter is not
one of them; she’s been at it for six months now, and she’s still
stumbling over basic steps and waving her arms around like windmills
which is the biggest sin an Irish dancer can commit other than dissing
Michael Flatley.
I get up and take a peek into the main room. She’s been shuffled into
remedial jig with four other girls so they can catch up with the rest
of the class. She’s pulling at her underwear and staring at herself in
the mirror instead of paying attention. Sigh.
I am caught in the stage of “before it’s too late”, the world of “if
they start young it’s easy”, the window of opportunity that allows your
child to become a talented, successful adult rather than an ordinary
drudge. Every world-renowned dancer, singer, musician, nobel winner, and
elite athlete started, it seems, before age 2 and practised every day
for 50 hours. And as adults they love what they do and make the world a
better place and they thank their mothers every day for the sacrifice
and encouragement (nagging) they received in their childhood to keep
going. Their success, they say in interviews, was largely the result of
their moms guidance (pushing).
I live in the age of the Tiger Mother, and I am a Tabby Cat. I want
my children to find passions, but I want them to have fun and enjoy
their childhoods. And I agonize over this every second of every day.
How is a Tabby mom to compete? How can I ensure that my children
excel in this world of overachievers? I look around at the rest of the
moms in the kitchen: some checking their email on their phones, some
chatting about learning activities, some helping their other kids with
their homework or feeding them something organic. We are all living with
the pressure of parenting and wanting to do the best job that we can to
raise our children, knowing that if it goes badly, it is all our fault.
And that every other mom in the room is doing a better job than we are.
We find activities, pay the registration fees, buy the shoes
(leotard, stick, racket, trampoline, chainsaw), and then throw them in
and hope something talented happens. If it doesn’t, we think, as moms,
that it must be our fault, so we put in more effort.
I have encouraged and asked and drilled and praised and pleaded and
scolded, but nothing I have done has made my wonderful child turn into
the diligent girls dancing near the front of the class, bouncing
gracefully and practising their steps over and over to get them perfect.
It didn’t make her a great ryhthmic gymnast either, laying on the
mats looking up at the ceiling of the auditorium while the other girls
did effortless cartwheels and twirled without falling over.
We worry about wasting the limited time available and then worry that
we haven’t given our kids a long enough time in an activity to truly
develop. My limit is two sememsters before we move on, watching for
signs that she’s still keen about the old activity. Did she just twirl
without falling over? Did she just perform a flawless reel? No, probably
not.
And in the midst of all of this, our children skip around in a fairy
circle oblivious to talent and judgement and I envy them and realise
that I am insane. And I smile and enjoy the dance.
Let’s try karate next.