My daughter’s dance recital was last weekend. It was actually her second time on stage — she had her first taste of the limelight before Christmas — and boy, she has really grown as a performer.
For one, she didn’t try to come out the front of the curtain like she did the previous recital. (Interesting fact: they don’t actually use those oversized shepherd’s hooks to take people off the stage, as on The Muppet Show. If I’m honest, my feelings were 50/50 on that one.)
She also remembered most of her choreography. This was sad — mostly because it is just so precious to watch the young dancers do adorable things, such as getting transfixed by how shiny their shoes are and missing a large portion of their 90 seconds onstage.
The recital was still precious, make no mistake. The tiny sailor costumes and the miniature salutes met the endearing quotient of the evening’s festivities.
And I was so proud… until it came time for awards and my daughter’s encore performance.
My daughter has a flare for the dramatic. I have nurtured this quality in her because as a child who had no siblings for eight years, I thrived on my imagination.
When my daughter throws her head into my lap because her evil stepsisters have wrecked her only dress to wear to the ball, I indulge her by using my wand (finger) to magically make her a new gown. Or when she shuts herself into the pantry closet and starts banging on the door, “Help, I’m in a cage,” I pretend that I am either the frog hunters who put her there or possibly the frog prince that comes and saves her.
Upon realizing that her name was not going to be called for an award — the awards centered on the older kids who actually have to dance and not just be cute — my daughter starts dramatically sighing and prostrating herself on the stage in a The-World-Is-Ending manner.
I knew she wasn’t just pretending to be Cinderella and although the moment was funny in a viral, YouTube glad-that’s-not-my-kid way, I couldn’t laugh along with the rest of my family because I knew the truth: I had a diva on my hands.
After I marched backstage and heard my daughter’s somewhat confusing rendition of not getting a gummy worm and/or her name called, I had to have that also somewhat confusing “You are the center of my world but not the whole world,” talk with her.
The talk went along the lines of taking turns and a vague analogy to how birthday’s only come once a year — apparently, I am not good at impromptu backstage parenting. It’s quite distracting to be teaching a life lesson surrounded by tutus.
The best part is we got the whole performance on tape.
At the very least, if my talk didn’t sink in, we have a killer way to embarrass her at her wedding.
Raina Dezall wonders how a girly-girly came from a tomboy like her. You can contact her at mother_load@hotmail.com.