Today is the second week of Matilda's youth theater and voice classes. She wants to be a singer when she grows up. Well, to be more exact, a veterinarian-teacher-dancer-physicist-singer/songwriter.
She's signed up for classes and will be playing a girl in Pirates of the Penzance. She's very excited. And for a kid who so rarely shows emotion, this is incredible.
I'm excited for her. And terrified at the same time. She doesn't know these kids. They've been doing this longer. She's never had a lesson. She doesn't know anything, etc. and so forth.
This week is costume check. Her mother spent the weekend sewing her costumes and did an amazing job. They look fantastic. Matilda said most of the other kids were buying theirs online. This sent a chill down my spine.
She'll be different. They'll all mock her. She'll cry. I'll cry and then beat up the parents of the kids that made her cry.
My stomach is in a knot. I'm frightened that she'll be ostracized for one reason or another.
She doesn't care. She likes her costumes, loves the fact that her mom spent the whole weekend doing something just for her and will love those costumes until they turn to dust. Plus, everyone loves her. She's the real-life Rory Gilmore.
I'm still a wreck.
When I dropped her off, she didn't even wave. She just disappeared into a swarm of unknown kids with a big grin on her face. I felt nauseous.
She has no worry about any of this. Her esteem is so high that she honestly doesn't care what other kids think, she marches to her own drummer. Eventually she'll be the most popular kid there, I have no doubt.
How the hell did I help raise this kid? I worry about being out of place when I go to get my hair cut and poll the waiting room on my style. I've been that way since I was a kid. Terrified of rejection.
She was worried about one thing, though. She made me take off my hat before I went inside with her. It's a cool, hand-made stocking cap with a Wilco patch on it. My wife made it. I love it. I've been wearing it all day. Jeff Tweedy would quiver with envy over the hat.
But to Matilda I looked like a dork. Even my static-charged hat hair was better than my big melon in a stocking hat.
Maybe it wasn't the hat . . . Maybe I am a dork. All parents are. Even if they were listening to Iggy Pop in the car before they went into the swanky arts school. (Odds are the rest of them were listening to their top catorce U2 songs). No matter how good my taste in music is, I'm lumped in with the rest of the parents. After all, we're parents. We're dorks.
I guess some things are universal.
Now, since I said all this she's probably in a puddle of tears. Alone. Different.
Augh. Damn it. Now I'm worried again.
Props to your parenting. My first dance recital had a pre-recital/dress rehearsal. My parents sent me into battle without my costumes. Then, the night of the recital, my mom did my makeup WAY too dark. Both of these ostracizing events affected me for years with my dancemates.
ReplyDeleteMelissa
iwantone.blogspot.com
You know, even Joe Strummer complained that his kids thought he was a big dork. So did Paul McCartney; his kids' friends would come over and ask questions about the Beatles, and Paul's kids would just roll their eyes.
ReplyDeleteSo it doesn't matter whether you're actually the coolest dad in the world. It doesn't matter to your kids; to them, you're the embarrassing old guy.