 |
|||
|
|
|||
|
Ballet Slippers as a Rite of Passage by Samantha Gianulis
Her pink ballet slippers slide on her feet easily with the silkiness of the white tights she wears. She is holding my shoulder with her little hand as I secure the required shoes for the practice of chassés. In the expressive medium known as dance, my little girl gets to be a little girl. How long will it last? I would like it to last forever, but her pink ballet shoes are a symbol of her young life’s evolution…newborn socks, little summer sandals, size nine Mary Janes and pink baby Uggs, now ballet slippers. She has done her pre-requisite tumbling, dilly-dallied through ice skating lessons and rejected pee wee soccer, now here we are at a dance recital; her first statement of her own identity, and she’s only four years old.
Up until four months ago my daughter Zoë was the baby, before her little sister came along. Now she has reluctantly moved into the middle child spot, regressing a little bit as expected, but gracefully finding something to call her own. With any luck, that is what kids ought to do; find their thing, and thrive. I think I have spent hundreds of dollars on classes, activities, and the appropriate gear finding her “thing”, but it was money well spent. At soccer practice, she ran into the bushes and came out with “swords”, sticks to you and me, and challenged her brother to a duel rather than kicking the soccer ball into the net as the coach instructed. I laughed with loving surrender; I encouraged and redirected, but soon realized, I’m talking to myself here. It’s simply impractical to force her to do something she doesn’t want to do – why should I? Because I fear the stigma of an inactive child? Because the girls in our neighborhood play soccer and compete in softball tournaments? That’s not encouragement, it’s conformity! So I let the issue go, confident my daughter’s extracurricular activity would reveal itself in its own natural way. I refuse to raise a little girl to fall in line just because it’s what everyone else is doing.
Then last year on a late summer day, “Holiday” by Madonna came on the radio at the water park and my baby got up and danced, twirled, dramatically pouted while posing and leaped into the air with verve and I thought, she has given me her first cue…I’m a dancer, Momma. I looked at my husband who watched with part elation, part trepidation. Yes, my wink told him, you’re in trouble.
Here at her first recital, Zoë and her three classmates shine in front of parents holding video cameras and bouquets of flowers. The parents seem more nervous than the dancers; the wonderful thing about a four-year-old mind is that it has no occurrence of self-doubt. These little girls stand before us, under the bright lights of the recreation center auditorium, smiling and awaiting their cue. From behind my video camera, I watch my child, somewhere between “baby” and “big girl”, delighted to be costumed in a white dress with pink polka dots and shiny pink ribbons in her hair. I watch her, eager as she is to show one and all the dance steps that she has practiced every Saturday for three months. This is not just a dance recital. It is an everlasting proclamation of Zoë’s individuality.
“Five, six, seven, eight!” shouts her dance teacher. That brings me back from my memory of rocking her to sleep in the hospital when she was born. “Hey Good Lookin’” begins, and four little girls dance in clumsy synchronicity with pure enjoyment. Look at her, my princess, following directions perfectly well for someone else besides me. Look at her, growing and learning and absolutely beaming with joy to dance, something she may have the predisposition to do (although, not from me!). Look at her, transitioning beautifully through this rite of passage. From this point on, when I take her to the park, she’ll snub the swings and dance in the sand. When I choose sensible jackets for her at the mall, she’ll beg me for the tutu at Capezio. When I sing “Gold Dust Woman” while doing housework, she’ll ask me to sing “Once Upon A Dream” so she can twirl. Once upon a time she walked into her first dance class with an instinct, she now stands on a stage with certainty and poise. Twelve weeks ago she approached her dance teacher tentatively; she now trusts her instructors with her little self in front of a crowd.
When their dance routine is over, Zoë pauses on her way off the stage to wave to all nine family members in her cheering section. We wave back and applaud so excitedly that we bump into the chairs of the people unfortunate enough to be seated in front of us. My husband glances at me to see if I am crying. “DON’T LOOK AT ME!” I snap at him. He loves to catch me in those mommy moments of tearful joy. He smiles with satisfaction, preserving the moment with subtle acknowledgement. We revel in the love that abounds our clan, and that, coupled with our daughter’s enthusiasm for her life this night, is something we will never forget.
As I watch my daughter blossom right in front of my eyes, I can’t help but cry. It’s a release of all of the emotions I feel – elation, pride, and sorrow to say good-bye to the clingy baby girl who now displays the characteristics of a confident young lady.
She runs to us from across the auditorium, shouting, “Did you see me, Mama? Did you see me, Papa?” What I wouldn’t give to capture her happiness right now, keep it in a jar like a firefly, and reserve it for her first broken heart as a teenager, or the first time she doesn’t get invited to a slumber party. But for now, I’m beaming right along with her, my little girl wearing ballet slippers and holding a dozen white roses.
Enjoy this, baby girl, your “thing” that you do so well. Celebrate this age of discovery. This rite of passage is but a memory now, you’re on your way to your next milestone. I’ll be the one sniffling behind the video camera.
Samantha Gianulis is a mother of three and writer from southern California. She walks the invisible tightrope of mothering, avoiding housework, and writing on her kid’s evil half-sibling, the laptop. She has been published in San Diego Family Magazine, Total 180! Magazine, and has essays in Mommyhood Diaries: Living the Chaos One Day at a Time.
|
|||
|
