Showing-off season

I could never go to law school. Forget about the LSATs, which I would most likely bomb, or the classes, which would put me to sleep on a regular basis, or the constant studying and writing; the thing that would really kill me would be the Bar exam right after graduation. I mean, really, what good is graduating when you have to dive right back in to work the following day? What's the point? I would be so burnt out and drained that I'd just say forget the whole thing. Thanks for the nice diploma, but I'm studied-out right now. I'd just wave my white flag right then and there. Hmph, I would grumble to anyone who would listen. I didn't want be a stupid lawyer anyway.

Thankfully, my husband has far greater endurance than I do. I don't know how he manages it.

I guess it's kind of like motherhood. The responsibilities and worries never end. Just when we think we have it made - school is out, summer is here - we get slammed with the showing-off season. It's the Bar exam of parenthood.

First it was the end of soccer season.

My son had an all-day tournament, and my daughter had her final game on the same day on different fields, in different towns. My husband and I have one car. It was a logistical rompecabeza, but somehow, we managed.

While the big kids played their games, the baby kept herself busy teaching herself to climb a tree.

Part of me watched in horror as she scaled the low branch, inching slowly upward.

Part of me glowed with pride at her derring-do and determination. The wise mom in me kept her mouth shut, and watched from a safe distance, letting her experience the pride of her own success by herself.

The look on her face when she made it her way to the "top" was priceless.

I'm so glad the worry wart in me shut her mouth for once.

It's a lesson I'm learning the hard way. My kids are getting to the age where I need to start doling out independence and responsibility more freely.

My kids are pretty good about the responsibility thing already. The two big ones have been taking piano lessons for years already, and they're good about practicing without too much noodging. But I have to admit, I was getting a little worried this past month. They had a recital coming up, and it was getting harder and harder to get them to sit down and focus. Neither of them could get through their recital pieces without seriously messing up. I gulped and said, try again more times than any of us wanted to hear. It was starting to be like pulling teeth.

The day of the recital came, and in the morning we had a nice distraction: my daughter's seventh birthday party.

Speaking of doling out responsibilities, after my baby's birthday party, two houses full of guests, and the graduation party, I was partied-out. I turned to my husband and said, the next one's yours. He came through beautifully, sending out e-vites, and planning the scavenger hunt along with all of the clues and prizes.

He ran the whole thing, and even took the pictures.

I baked a cake that no one but the birthday girl liked, and I put together the goody bags. My daughter had a great time with her friends, but abdicating my own maternal responsibilities may have been an even bigger treat for me.

With that party in the hopper, we put the spring time birthday season to rest, and headed off to the piano recital. Truthfully, I knew my kids worked hard and knew their pieces, and if they messed up, so be it. This wasn't Carnegie Hall. It was the experience that counted. Still, I would have liked to see them see that their hard work was paying off. But I wasn't so sure. After sitting through one botched up practice after another, I didn't see how they were going to pull it off.

A little voice in my head (that sounded an awful lot like my husband) advised me to back off. It was hard, but I'm learning. Once again, I abdicated responsibility to the dad, let him supervise lesson-time, and made myself busy in the kitchen. The urge to noodge was too great.

After the birthday party, we dressed, gathered up the music, and headed to the recital hall. My kids seemed relaxed and happy, and fortunately, it was contagious. We got there early, the kids ran through their pieces on stage a couple of times, and we were ready to go. First up was my daughter playing a lovely, sad piece by Lyakhovitsky, loosely translated by the piano teacher as "Sad Dog". My daughter confidently ascended the stage, took her bow, and played her piece flawlessly (at least to her mother's ear), and then dashed off stage as fast as her little legs could take her.

Next up was my son. His piece, A Short Story, by Kabalevsky, was technically demanding, and required some pretty swift fingerwork. All month long he struggle with getting his hands up to speed. He practiced frequently with a metronome, but couldn't quite get through the whole piece with out tripping over his own fingertips. Once again, I tried not to worry too much. It was a piano recital, not the Van Cliburn competition. He looked so grown up mounting the stage, taking a deep bow, and sitting himself down to play. My son sat up, took a deep breath, and plowed through his piece better than he'd played all month. I marvelled at his maturity and professionalism. When did he get so big?

For the last piece, my son and his school friend played a sweet duet together called Copycat, by Matz. For kids three years apart they had amazing chemistry. Why not? I asked my husband mischievously, we're three years apart!

With that, we sighed deeply and scratched another thing off our list.

Only one more responsibility lay ahead of us before we could declare a start to summer. The following week was the dance recital. All three of my children were scheduled to perform, but not before I had to attend the parent helper meeting, and not before we had to endure the dress rehearsal. Each step was a time consuming and a mind-numbingly aggravating "hurry-up-and-wait" kind of experience.

The recital was scheduled for father's day. I woke up early, made my husband an omelet and a smoothie, while the kids made him homemade cards. Just as he was sitting up in bed to enjoy the morning meal, the phone rang.

"Where are we supposed to drop-off the luggage today?" a friend who was sending her daughter to the same camp we were sending our son asked in what sounded like near-panic.

I quickly understood what panic really was. Drop off?? Today?? I practically screamed into the phone. They're not leaving until Tuesday!

I had three hours to finish the laundry, label hundreds of clothing items, fold and pack them, and get them to the van, and make it to the theatre on time. We flew into action, barking at the kids all the while. Don't ask me any questions now! For that matter don't even talk to me! I screamed anytime a child approached. They backed away slowly with a look of curiosity and concern.

Miraculously, my husband got the suitcases to the drop-off point on time, and I got to the theatre with the girls a little early. No one had their head bitten off by a rabid mother.

If the end of dance classes was graduation, dress rehearsal was studying for the Bar exam, and the recital itself was the Big Test. For me, as the backstage mom, it was one test of patience after another. I was stuck with a half-dozen half-pint three and four year olds who didn't want to stay backstage, in their costumes, with stupid bows in their hair. They wanted to run around and play, or else they wanted mommy. The crusher was when I was getting ready to leave the girls with another mommy so that I could watch big sister's performance from the side of the stage. As I was leaving, a little polka-dotted princess asked me to take her to the potty.

I missed big sister's performance.

We managed to get the girls and boy on stage, fully dressed in time for their dance. My little one decided the choreography wasn't up to her level of expertise, so she embellished, until the brightly colored screen behind her distracted her. With a big smile, a wave to her daddy, and a couple of prat falls, she made it through her dance, and off the stage.

I may have missed their dance, but I did get to see my daughter and her hiphop friends goofing off backstage. They were adorable.

Especially my little hiphop girl.

My son's performance was during the second show. He did an awesome, acrobatic, hiphoppy, breakdancing thing with his Just For Boys group. My husband and I switched jobs. I sat in the audience while he stayed backstage with a pack of wild boys, thereby avoiding the decidedly immodest overweight belly dancers.

Dancing didn't come easy to my son. Several times over the year he was ready to quit. The teacher was sweet and patient, but had an artistic vision that was physically demanding and required tremendous focus. My son struggled with both. But like piano, when it came time to perform, he brought on his A-game. The boys brought the house down mid-routine with a tripod handstand that my son had been agonizing over. I felt him beaming from 30 rows back.

My hiphopper started theatre camp today, but by noon, I was on my way to pick her up. She has a delicate constitution that couldn't stomach peanut butter and chocolate chip challah sandwiches. The baby asked her if she had a "stummy egg".

My son is all packed up. Today I'm putting him on a bus for somewhere in Wisconsin. It will be his first overnight camping experience. I will have four weeks to miss him, worry about him, and fret. No one said this independence thing would be easy. What will my picky eater eat? Can he even make his own bed? I guess it's time to let go, step back, and tell that inner worry wart to stuff a sock in it.

Actually, my inner worry wart will be too busy dealing with the psychotoddler all day. Lucky me, I'll be running my own mommy camp for the two of us.

And you think the Bar exam is hard?