We had a Big Day earlier this month. The afternoon kindergarten class was going to sing Skin-a-ma-rink en français in front of the older classes at an assembly, there would be a puppet show, and parents were invited.
Our preparation was thorough. Once through the song every night after dinner, and lots of briefings—for me, not for the five-year-old. “Don’t clap too loud! Don’t cheer. Who’s coming? I think I should wear a bow tie.” But as it approached, talking about the Big Day was met with grumpier and grumpier looks.
Sidebar: my child is not normally reluctant to perform, if it’s on his own terms. This is the kid who will happily tell the same knock-knock joke ten times in a row to a roomful of people he’s just met and proudly show off his newest secret agent moves at the playground. On this occasion, though, he was clearly not looking forward to being on display.
I gently probed the issue, assuming that it was stage fright, but couldn’t get anything more than “I don’t WANT to sing” until the day before the assembly. On the ride home from school, he said, “This is my first time singing in front of people.” Aha, stage fright, good job Dad for being so clever. Let’s fix this. (One day I’ll learn that as soon as I think “let’s fix this” I’m about to screw up.) I pointed out that he had done a dance recital the summer before, with lots of people watching, and that was kind of the same thing. “No! That was totally different!” Angry silence from the back seat for most of the rest of the ride home, until we saw a pretty cool front-end loader and all was forgotten.
But I kept thinking about it that day. At bedtime, we talked about it a little bit more, and it turned out that a very important bit between parentheses had been left out. It wasn’t “This is my first time singing in front of people.” It was “This is my first time singing in front of people (and Mommy won’t be there to see).” It was completely different from the dance recital, because Mommy was there to see that one.
Firsts are hard enough; firsts with parentheticals attached, it turns out, are even harder. My so-young kindergartener lives a life full of firsts—that’s just what it is to be five—and those damned parentheses will always be there. First assembly, first soccer game, first piano lesson, first sleepover, first ride in a booster seat. (And Mommy won’t be there to see.)
It turns out, though, that the parentheses can be practised. We put in the work to talk about how he was feeling and to prepare for what the performance might feel like. The Big Day came and went off without a hitch. None of the things happened that he was worried about: nobody made fun of him for not having a mom in the audience; he still felt proud even though there was sadness there too; and his dad didn’t cheer so loudly that it embarrassed him in front of the incredibly cool Grade Fours.
After the assembly, his class was allowed to go find their grown-ups in the audience before going back to their classroom. He ran straight at me, buried his face in my chest and grabbed me in the tightest bear hug he’d ever given. He wouldn’t talk and he wouldn’t move; he just clung there for a solid thirty seconds.
It was a hug I’ll never forget. Not just because it was one of the most heartfelt hugs I’ve ever received, but because the hug itself was the parentheses after the parentheses. This was my first time singing in front of people (but Mommy wasn’t there). (But I did it, and I made it, and I’m proud and sad, and I can’t believe I’m actually going to be okay.)
