The Last Class
There is almost nothing sweeter than a toddler in pink tights and a matching bodysuit fluttering around in her first dance class. For most, it is the first time that they are in a group activity, following the lead from someone other than a parent. They are free to move, play and spin with new sounds, new faces and new moves. With each of my three girls, the experience has been different, but so telling of their temperaments. I thought that I signed them up to watch the innocence and take more photos. In retrospect, it was to watch their first go at being independent.
Our eldest was self-assured from an early age. She ran in to her class “with bells on” and enjoyed every minute of it. Obedient and full of life. Two years later she was helping out in her sister’s first ballet class. She is a natural leader with the few necessary confidence boosters from us. Her sister, our second born, a strong willed child, was crying often and slow to warm up. Some classes we skipped, others I sat in the room, dutifully creating the safety net that she needed. Lets be real, other times I was begging. Finally, she came to love it and ended up on stage at her first ballet recital without the tears...a surprise to us all. Recently, I signed up our fourth child for what would be the last ballet class. Having not been in the studio for quite sometime, I forgot about the chaos that is the dancing school waiting area. Parents running after toddlers. Girls running from room to room. Moms brushing wisps of fine hair into ballerina buns and spraying it with hairspray. Parents on their cell phones catching up on emails, social media, phone calls with friends all the while trying to decide how to get dinner on the table in between activities. These are the pasta nights or cereal nights in our home. And I will admit, occasionally we hit McDonald’s. There I said it. Even this pediatrician mom occasionally feeds her kids fast food. It’s about survival and frankly there is just no time.
As I sit and watch everyone swirling about, I wonder how many of these parents are truly content. Sometimes, it is quite obvious when a mom shuts off her cell phone, sits on the floor with her toddler and hands out the endless supply of crackers while laughing and tickling him. Then there’s the dad who clearly is not into taking videos and brushing hair, but has a seamless bond with his little girl that is evident in the way he looks at her. She checks back as she enters the class to reassure herself that her daddy is staying put. Now she can dance. She is not as worried because her dad is calm. He smiles and nods. She runs excitedly and picks out her lavender colored fairy wings.
I see a mom with a crying baby in her arms, tearful and at the end of her rope. She is struggling to calm the baby, take the toddler to the bathroom and squeeze in a few minutes to herself to check her phone. I feel for her because I can see that she is trying, loves her kids and still can’t get there. Where is there? Does the vision we all have of motherhood actually align with real life at all? Ever? Can we even get there? Or is it just the journey over year and years that should be the true focus. Maybe there is no endpoint. Personally, there have been many times in my life when I have realized that there is no endpoint. As I continue practicing medicine and learn the art of it. As I grieve the loss of my mother. As I strive to balance my life. But maybe that’s the lesson. There doesn’t need to be an endpoint. We have to put our energy into raising strong little people into stronger big people. As we do this, we will gain more and learn more about ourselves if we do it in a way that is not filled with anxiety and worry. The question is how do we get to that place. How do we lighten the societal pressures, the feelings of inadequacy, the frustrations of parenting? Let’s begin by learning to be mindful.