Friday, May 14, 2004

...But isn't that how Britney got her start?

The note home announced that Lulu's kindergarten class would be holding a "talent show.'' It was designed as an esteem-building fest centered around the theme "I Can!''
Lulu's teacher, Mrs. Lincoln, who we ordinarily love, listed some of the talents shown in previous years: somersaults; counting to ten in Spanish, tying shoes.
Lulu loves to draw so she decided that she would draw a girl in a dress for the show. (Dresses are her specialty).
But then she got wind of what some of the other kids were doing. Pietro Giordano was breakdancing. Maria Springer was doing the macarana. Felicia Pingry was playing the flute. Sanchita Patel was folding paper animals AND hula hooping. It was starting to sound like "Star Search.''
Suddenly, Lulu didn't want to draw anymore. We ran through an inventory of what I considered to be her talents: She can pretend to be a robot but didn't' want to do that. She can recite passages from "Sponge Bob'' (and does a mean Mrs. Puff) but nixed that. She can somersault and skip.
But Lulu decided to dance. This, in my mind, was a bit of a problem. Last year, I projected on to Lulu all my thwarted hopes of becoming a ballerina and signed her up for ballet. She really liked it and had a great time.
But I found myself scrutinizing her like the most heinous of stage moms. After lessons, when she was asleep, I'd report to my husband, "She's doing fine, but she just doesn't have it. Its like if you saw a kid playing baseball at an early age and you can tell that even though he might be good someday, he's never going to turn pro.''
I tried to conceal these feelings from Lulu because I realized how unhealthy and ridiculous they were---she was only four and big whoop if she didn't become a ballerina. Ballerinas are all bulemic, anyway.
I vowed that for the talent show, I'd be supportive and laid-back. When Lulu decided to dance to "Denis'' by Blondie, I squelched the urge to steer her toward something more crowd-pleasing--like "Cinderella'' by Play.
But soon, it was all too apparent that since she hadn't taken ballet in a year, she didn't have a routine. She resisted my attempts at choreography---which consisted of Jon Benet-esque miming motions because I thought they'd be easy for her to remember (lots of hugging oneself and pointing to one's eyes and to the audience to indicate, "Denis, Denis/ Oh, with your eyes so blue/Denis, Denis, I got a crush on you.'')
Lulu was bent on improvising. Her dance involved lots of leaps and spins and falling on the floor, occasionally in time to the music. She also tried to incorporate Pietro's breakdancing moves.
She looked adorably ridiculous and I hoped that she'd do it that way during the show.
When she came home the day of dress rehearsal, though, she said she had been too "embarrassed'' to do her entire dance. No one made fun of her, she said. She just suddenly felt self-conscious.
I tried to reassure her the she'd be fine, but she cried, "Its embarrassing. I want to be invisible.'' I told her that if she didn't feel comfortable dancing, she needed to think of something that wouldn't' make her feel embarrassed, but she refused.
By now--cranky from a long day of school and aftercare--she had worked herself into a mild hysteria. Her whining grated my nerves and I wound up snapping at her. I worried she wasn't dancing because I had so clearly conveyed my lack of confidence in her.
In the end, Lulu decided to draw herself picking up Zeb, with both of them wearing party hats (the party hats were her idea, for once, not mine).
As it turned out, the show was not the child-star pageant I imagined. The break dancers and flute-players and paper-animal folders were fine, but they looked like normal, nervous six-year-olds, not performers in a Missy Elliot video.
When Lulu's best friend Maria trudged grimly through her macarena routine, Lulu did the motions along with her from her chair for encouragement and hugged her tightly when she was done.
A few acts later and Lulu's name was called. She walked up front in her denim dress with the checkered tulips and quietly said, "I can pick up my brother Zeb.'' She held up her drawing. Everyone said "awww'' and clapped.
When it was over, Mrs. Lincoln told me that during dress rehearsal the day before, Lulu had danced beautifully. She couldn't understand why she'd changed her mind.
I wanted to scream: "Because I killed her impulse to dance with my narcissistic demands that she be perfect!! And I'm terrified of doing this for the rest of her life!!!''
Instead, I replied, "Gee, I don't know. Maybe she was just feeling shy.''
Next to me, on a child's desk, was a tray full of "champagne'' in tiny glasses. I reached out to take one, but the teacher's aide informed me they were just for the kids. The Sprite in plastic cups were for the parents.

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