Tonight I took my almost 4 year old daughter to see Beauty and the Beast at our local high school. I am a reformed princess-hater (see my earlier post about Princess Hater? Not so much anymore). I wonder if there is a term for hating princesses, like regiphobe? I have overcome my issues with fairy tales and commercialism of Disney and fully embraced princess make-believe with my kids. So, here we are, walking up the steps of the high school, my daughter wearing her Sleeping Beauty Halloween costume, a size too large so it lasts, with a few rips and tears from the many dress-up games, but none the less sparkly, ruffly and resplendent. She clutches her princess toys, Cinderella and Belle, while she holds up her too-long dress, clambering up the steps carefully to avoid tripping in her sparkly, Hello Kitty boots. Looking at her, I am overcome with emotion.
I assume that other parents are also regularly struck sideways by the exquisite vulnerability of their children, as I am. Almost daily, I envision horrific scenarios while performing mundane tasks; I see them burned, lost, cut, bruised, etc, from scary things that just might happen. Don’t be alarmed, I am not thinking of harming my kids. I just have flashes of ways they could get hurt and there are many, many, many ways that children under the age of four can be hurt. I think of motherhood as a thin skin covering a blister of worry. The blister of worry began the moment I found out I was pregnant and has grown ever since. The skin that covers it keeps it under control, but sometimes I have to poke at it, just to make sure it is still there and it is still real.
Today, it was not a physical worry that poked the blister of motherhood. She was just so darn adorable in her pink and sparkles, gripping her princesses, so trusting that she was going to see something magical. I had a visceral reaction to the incredible faith and vulnerability of my little girl going to see her first play, so excited because Mommy says it’s going to be great. For a moment, I envisioned disappointment: what if someone is mean to her in her dress? What if someone takes her toys or makes fun of her? What if I was wrong about the time and day of the play? What if the play is terrible and she’s scared of it and we have to leave? None of those were likely and none of them would result in long-term damage. Still, I am so very protective of her enthusiasm, her delight and her trust in new experiences.
My momentary fears were for naught. The play, not surprisingly, turned out to be wonderful. People seemed delighted at all the little girls in princess costumes with their toys, the actors were talented, and she was transfixed. She kept asking, “Mommy, what’s happening next?” and she screamed in terror and delight when Gaston stabbed the Beast. It was so special to hold her on my lap and watch her experience the wonder of live theater.
I might have hated princesses, but I always loved theater, especially high-school and amateur theater. I prefer high-school theater to professional theater the same way I prefer local, amateur musicians to professional live music, and I prefer 4-H horse shows to the World Championships. I don’t love the amateur versions because of the quality of the performances, but because of the enthusiasm and the rawness of the performers. I love the fact that it is such a big deal to the players, that they are not putting in their time for a paycheck, or that they have another gig coming down the pipe tomorrow that is much more important. I love how much it means to them. The student actors are just as vulnerable as my mini-princess when she climbs up the steps, skirts in hand.
I remember the glorious triumph of high school musicals. My view of the action was most often from the back stage, or from the back of the chorus during a large number. My lack of talent didn’t diminish the transcendent nature of the experience. I remember the trust in magic, trust in the talent of our cast and our director, trust in our youth and enthusiasm. Our director used to pull us aside before every opening night and tell us a story. He told us that our lives were made up of moments, that special moments were memories in the necklace of our lives, and that tonight was going to add a pearl to that necklace. He was right. My fellow performers, managers and crew gave those performances our best, leaving all our talent on the stage and holding nothing back. We did not worry about what might happen; we put our best out there and trusted in the grace of the world.
I keep thinking of the vulnerability of my little girl and of the actors in the play tonight. I think that we become parents so we can experience the vulnerability of youth again. As an adult, I have learned my strengths and learned to protect myself. I hedge my bets and temper my excitement and I live safely within my own sphere of competence. Parenthood threatens that bubble of competence. Poking the blister of worry reminds me of the fragile nature of life. That’s when I open up to new experiences, wearing sparkly princess costumes, clutching precious toys, ready for the magic that awaits me.
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