The World's a Stage

I'm staking out my own corner of time and space in front of the computer for the first time in over a week. The school year has ended and I find myself at the mercy of my three children, entertaining them, disciplining them, feeding them, and mostly, cleaning up after them. My husband, also finished with school, has been around the apartment a lot more. This has its ups and downs. It's great to have him around to talk to, as well as share the burdens of taking care of the kids, cooking and cleaning. But I don't enjoy sharing the computer so much. I've been chomping at the bit watching him pouring into his research with a single-minded focus, while I itch to blog. There is so much going on in our lives, the creative dam is about to burst. More importantly, I fear the vibrant details will be lost in my muddled memory.

One vibrant memory that won't fade for a long time is my daughter's first ballet recital.

My sweet little diva had been working so hard, all year long, for this moment of glory. Every day when we came home from her nursery school, she would climb up the toy chest to reach the CD player. She knew exactly which buttons to press to start her recital music. She'd press play, and wait, her arms akimbo, back straight, for the opening strands of Volare. Then she'd skip into her position and start her plies, tondues, and chasses in the middle of her living room. She finished her ballet dance and lifted her leg up like a stork waiting to start her "shovel steps" for Little Star. I was always so impressed at her dedication and hard work.

And it paid off!

The dress rehearsal was Thursday night. I had volunteered to be the "class mom". That meant I stayed back stage dressing the girls in their costumes, refreshing their makeup, watching them like a hawk, and making sure they got on stage at the right time. It was such a pleasure leading my little green tutued ducklings behind me like a mama duck. One little duckie was missing from her class, but my little duckling stood proudly in the front of the group and did her dance steps with great confidence. I stood in the wings, doing the dance alongside them, in case someone got lost. I'm sure I looked like a crazy stage mom, but the little red head seemed to appreciate the small, if awkwardly delivered, reminders.

Miss Katie, the beautiful, willowy ballet teacher, came up to me after their practice and whispered to me, "If the other girl doesn't show up for the performance, please try to explain to your daughter that she should shift over to the middle like the point of the triangle." We looked over and watched in amazement, as my five year old got the message and budged over two steps, right between the other two. "A natural performer!" Observed her teacher, mildly impressed.

She thinks our girl's a genius! I bragged to my husband that night.

That Sunday was the big day, and of course, we were over scheduled and overwhelmed. My son had a piano lesson in the morning. His first recital was a mere week away. I had to be at the theatre a couple of hours early to help with the set up. So I ran my son to his lesson, ran back, bathed my daughter and packed up her costume and make-up, and carefully moussed, gelled, and blow-dried her Dorothy Hamill 'do into two little pigtails.

Law School Dad had his hands full. He dropped me off at the theatre, dropped our son off at his little league game, drove back to the theatre and dropped the ballerina back stage, and went to find his seat with the baby.

Meanwhile, I was busy primping and dressing the little girls, and keeping them busy while the other classes performed.

It was time for the girls' ballet performance. I escorted them backstage and jogged to the other side of the stage to wait for them. I cringed as the stage manager placed them on the stage. The girls, expecting to skip into position, were lost and confused when the music started. They were clumped together and completely out of sorts. My daughter knew enough to try to pick up the dance in the middle, but it was hopeless. The train wreck only got worse, when the girls and I realized that the music playing on stage was different than the music to which they had rehearsed in class. The girls, ready to walk on their tiptoes to the front of the stage and conclude the dance, were cut short by the early fading music. My daughter simply bowed and skipped off the stage. I shuffled them off the stage showering the little girls with compliments. They were blissfully clueless.

Several dances later, my little girls were called back onto the stage for their tap dance routine. This time, the teacher caught me before the performance and told me to help them get into their position. I dutifully pranced onto the stage in the cover of darkness, and lined them up into two lines. My daughter stood, chin up in front, her leg bent in anticipation for the opening strands of the music. Once again, she performed confidently and fearlessly, while I flailed about in the wings, clumsily approximating her dance for the benefit of the little lost red head.

This time they all skipped off contentedly, with Momma duck wagging and waddling behind.

After a disorganized finale, I whisked my girls back into the dressing room, and dressed them back in their street clothes, gathered up their costumes, shoes, and makeup, and escorted them all to the eager arms of their beaming parents. And in my daughter's case, beaming baby sister.

My daughter spent a lot of time on the stage this past week. On the following Thursday, she had her end of school performance/Nursery School graduation.

The kids lined up and walked into their seats and proceeded to sing their way through the school year, starting with Rosh Hashana, and ending with Shavuot. I gawked in amazement that they had learned more than a dozen songs for us to enjoy, in addition to their lines.

After a jaw dropping performance, they received their nursery school diplomas and went off to the reception, where we admired her school work, and said goodbye to her teachers and dear friends.

It was particularly nice watching my husband interacting with the other dads. It's a rare occasion when he is able to chat with other men his age. Especially other men with children. He no longer looked like the wise old man of his law school class.

As much time as my daughter spent on stage, I spent working behind the scenes. In addition to being backstage at the ballet recital, I volunteered at my son's school to help with field day, shuttling third graders around from activity to activity for two and a half hours. The last day of school was early dismissal. I asked my friends to send their kids home on the bus with my son. All five of them shuffled in hungry and hyper. I fed them mac and cheese, caramel corn, grapes, and cupcakes. They played and drifted in and out of the living room where Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was glowing from the desktop DVD player. We were together again celebrating my son's completion of book 2. It was a tremendous accomplishment for a second grade boy.

My friends showed up a few hours later to retrieve their kids. I pushed cupcakes on them to avoid the temptation myself. I was still on the infernal diet, and after two weeks, had only lost two pounds. I was discouraged, but determined.

The crowds cleared, and I relaxed for a moment. Only one more event to get through: My son's piano recital. My son started his lessons in January, and proved to be a hard-working, dedicated student. We were all excited to see him shine, but none as much as my mother-in-law who was flying in for the big event. He had a big day: a piano lesson in the morning, a baseball game in the early afternoon, and the recital that night. We had his suit dry-cleaned and his shirt ready to go. Granma was here and ready for the big show.

Sunday morning, I awoke early to get everything ready. "Mom!" I heard from my son's room. "I just threw up." This did not surprise me. My son was starting to show signs of nervousness. I suspected, and knew the moment I saw the foamy white saliva bubbled on the rug, he was faking. I cleaned it up and sent him back to bed to rest. An hour later, I heard him moaning again. "Mom, I have diarrhea now." And he did. For the next few hours, it continued. My husband called his teacher to cancel the lesson.

"Hopefully, he'll be ready for the recital." My husband told the disappointed teacher.

An hour later he emailed the baseball coach to let him know my son would be missing the game. We gave him medicine, fed him nibbles of dry toast and sips of ginger ale, and prayed and waited, but he was not looking any better and he wasn't eating. The teacher called a few times.

"We don't know." Was all we could say, unhelpfully.

Finally we gave up. He was not up to going to the recital, either as a participant or as an observer. He adamantly refused.

I wondered to myself if he had willed himself to be sick out of sheer nervousness.

"Don't make a big deal of it." Advised my wise Mother-in-law. "Don't make him feel bad. He'll grow out of it." I suppressed my disappointment and sadness.

The next day, he was just fine.

It's time to stake out a corner of summer for ourselves. Tomorrow we're driving my Mother-in-law back to Minnesota and stealing a week of rest and restoration for ourselves and our kids, before the summer whirlwind whips up.