My daughter takes dance lessons and May is recital month in our household. Recitals today are more complicated and last longer
than a world war...and you end up feeling like you've been through one after it's over. But we enjoy it, particularly after our rocky start. When my child was three she started taking ballet. Parents
are not allowed to watch, mainly because they want to quarterback when they should be keeping quiet. But we are allowed in on occasion to check our child's progress.
The first time we were
permitted to watch Elizabeth she was in a class of cute little three-year-olds all dressed in leotards and tights. The other girls were doing crooked somersaults on the mats, while our own child stood
stock-still, staring at her father and me, actively engaged in exploring the contents of her nose and crying as though poised on the steps of the guillotine.
We stared back, dismayed. Was this how
Shirley Temple started? After all, this wasn't exactly what we had in mind when we paid for those tiny little ballet slippers.
My husband leaned over to me and whispered, "How much did you say we're
paying for this?" Her teacher made us feel better though, by telling us it wasn't unusual for children to balk at performing in front of their own parents. This, she said, will pass. And it did.
We were gratified to note the child who adamantly refused to move when we were in the room now relishes her performances. In fact, she's progressed to the point where she's a ham. And even her brother
enjoys the recitals. At her last one, he read the program and watched each act, clapped and was thrilled as the dancers appeared on stage. Of course, he hasn't always been so receptive to cultural events.
And, I discovered, other kids are pretty much the same.
A few years back I took them to see a touring performance of "The Nutcracker". He wasn't too keen on the ballet, but he confined his
squirming to a minimum. Behind us sat a boy of about 11 or 12. Before the show started his mother explained in patient tones everything that was going to happen on stage and kept reassuring him he'd love it.
He responded by slumping lower in his seat and demanding to know when the show was going to start. He had the demeanor of a death row inmate.
Finally, the ballerinas appeared and spun gloriously
around on the stage. The kid behind us perked up considerably and began to watch with enthusiasm. His mother positively glowed. Finally, she leaned over and stage-whispered, "See, I told you you'd like it."
Yeah," he replied, "This is really cool. I can see their underpants."
I couldn't see what Mom's face looked like, but I knew she was in the throes of one of those parental moments when you
realize that, no matter what anyone says, sometimes you really ARE hitting your head against a brick wall. About five minutes later they disappeared. I have my suspicions Junior probably went back to
watching pro-wrestling while Mom took a vow never to try and force culture on the kid again.
My favorite writer, Dorothy Parker, was once challenged to compose a sentence with the word,
'horticulture" in it. Her famous response: "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think." With all due respect to the late, great Miss Parker -- you can lead a kid to culture, but you
can't make him see anything but the underpants. And that's a fact.
