I was thriled when my three and a half year old
daughter, Courtney, asked to take a dance class. Up until that
moment, she had never shown an interest in joining an activity, and
I had never taken the initiative. I was beginning to feel
guilty, like I was depriving her of some vital notch on the belt of
childhood. Many mothers I know, with children even younger than mine,
were involved in at least one activity. We had never even joined
a play group. A dance class would be perfect, I thought.
She's always dancing around the house. And every day I have to be
the prince, as she is Cindarella, and we waltz throughout the
living room.
We decided to make the first class a family
affair, and then go out to dinner. I was relieved to see only four
other young girls in the class, afraid Courtney might feel
overwhelmed in a large group. She seemed relaxed and comfortable as we
watched the early class finish. Then when it was time for her
session to begin, the other girls ran right up to the teacher, as if
familiar with the drill. Courtney just sat frozen in her chair.
"No! I don't wanna dance," she said, arms folded across her
chest. "Taylor will dance. Not me."
Taylor, her one year old
sister, had only just begun to walk. Dancing was pushing it. My
first reaction was embarassment as I tried, unsucessfully, to drag
her from her seat. The other parents quietly snickered,
probably thinking, "Rookie! You should've started her earlier." At
least that's what I was thinking while trying to restrain Taylor
from running over to participate.
Taylor was at the
perfect age--Eager, carefree, and wanting to do anything the big
kids did. Plus the word "no" had not yet entered her vocabulary.
What could be more perfect? Courtney used to be just as
enthusiastic and fearless. What happened? Why wouldn't she just try it
when I pleaded with her to do so?
We made her sit and
watch, hoping at some point she'd see the other girls having fun
and want to join. It never happended. Then our embarassment
turned to anger. Courtney said she would dance "next time", but
her father firmly stated that there would be no "next time". I
retrieved my registration check and we drove right home. No
celebratory dinner at Burger King.
Her father and I were very short
with her that night, not hiding our disappointment. And she was
sad. She knew her parents were upset with her, but I don't think
she understood why. I don't think I understood why. As I
tucked her into bed, Courtney looked up at me with her big
beautiful blue eyes and asked, "Mommy, are you mad at me?" I said,
"Yes, but I still love you." And the look on her face nearly
broke me in half.
That night was a turning point for me as a
mother.
To her, it didn't matter that I still loved her. It
mattered that I was mad at her. I felt ashamed of myself for
displaying such a harsh and inappropriate reaction to what was only an
unsucessful first attempt at joining an activity. She was scared and I
should have been more compassionate. Maybe I should've walked her
over to the teacher and did a few dance steps with her. Maybe I
wanted to, but being an awkwardly shy and reserved person left me
motionless, unable to give my daughter the support she needed. Maybe
that was the real reason behind my disappointment.
I wanted
my girls to be strong, gutsy, and take on the world. Not sit
on the sidelines and watch life pass them by. I was the shy
one. I was the one who was afraid to try new things, meet new
people, and speak up in large groups. Not my children. Maybe
that's why I was so disappointed when Courtney seemed glued to her
seat at dance class--because that's what I would have done.
After she had fallen asleep that night, I peeked in on her four or
five times. And each time I saw her little body curled neatly
under her blankets, sound asleep, I had the same thought--My
precious little baby girl, still so dependant and fragile. I
realized I have been pushing her to grow up before she was ready to.
When she was first born, I couldn't wait for her to roll over.
When she crawled, I couldn't wait for her to walk. And when she
turned three, I dreamed of the day she'd ride on her first school
bus.
Two months ago she wasn't ready to be on her own with
other kids and another authority figure. And that's ok. After
all, she's only three and a half. And I know one day, not long
from now, she'll be running full speed ahead, jumping into new
territories with both feet. But until then, I will cherish these
hand-holding moments. I have to, because I'll miss them when they're
gone.
(c) 1998 Jen Farnsworth All Rights Reserved
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