Stage mom

“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

At some point, when you have children, you will find yourself pragmatically shuffling into an auditorium with a  crowd of parental constituents, not to mention a sprinkling of wide-eyed grandparents, scooting across bleachers or high-stepping over knee caps to plop into a velveteen seat.  Yes, you are at a school play, recital, musical, whatever you want to call a junior-amateur performance.  They are, basically, all the same.

Children love art.  Art dominates their brains, starving the logic and reasoning side, because the world they know is abstract and opened to boundless interpretation.  They see things as they could be, not only how they should be.  Pants can be hats and ketchup can be finger paint and the dog can be a baby doll.  That's why they love the boxes.

Once exposed to "structured" art forms, there comes a time to perform or exhibit their newly developed talents.  Granted, the "talent" is raw, and may never be more than glorified mumbling, a sequined bunny hop, or a Jackson Pollock...well, wait a minute...

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My oldest daughter spent most of her ballet class admiring her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, twirling recklessly until she ricocheted off fellow students.  Her arabesques were better suited for lay-ups, and with recital rapidly approaching, I was fairly confident she would never spend therapy dollars on treatment for OCD.  When all was said and done, and little ballerina buns were loosened and the last of the glitter was swept from the floor, the only thing I remember from that 3-hour marathon of dance was: her, and the part where she "messed up" was the best part of all.  She mistakenly stood up to Captain Hook, even though she was not supposed to participate in the scene at all.  Her four-year-old mind saw the art as reality, making her courage real and unexpected.  I can't explain how proud I was to see her stand up to the "bad guy" all on her own.

Years later, her school choreographed a Chinese fan dancing routine as a facet of there annual musical.  Despite the memos and newsletters that come home and fall like confetti, I somehow missed the fact that she had been selected to participate.  So when I arrived to see the third-grade show, before I knew it, there she stood, cloaked in red, gliding with maturity and form, ruby cloth fans clapping opened with more drama than one could imagine possible with a small company of 8-year-olds.  Her munchkin face was thoughtful, but not strained, and captivated my presence like I was the only one in the room, privileged to know this beautiful child well on her way to being grander than I could have dreamed.

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Now you sit, scanning through a sea of adorable-but, let's face it: meaningless-mugs, you lock onto the only one that matters.  Your eyes meet.  You wave like a crazed stalker-fan, forgetting you parted ways only 15 minutes prior.  In that small amount of time, however, you have taken your seat as an observer.  The other children fade away, even though you attempt to give due credit by panning the entire scene from time to time, perhaps even pointing out another performer to your significant other, and said "significant" will nod in agreement, as they, too, attempt equality.  Even so, you snap back to attention with any movement credited to your own flesh and blood.

Once that curtain parts, anticipation meets wonder, to behold the oneness of a being to which you have attached so much of yourself.  They stand exposed.  You drink them in.  Their vulnerability creates a paradox.  You are nervous for them, but with bated breath you admire anything they muster to perform to an audience of strangers.  In that moment, the world melts and falls away and they stand in the spotlight of your eyes, and they are so much more than bed head or mac 'n' cheese or play dates or stinky sneakers.  They are art.  They are themselves.  And, you are intoxicated.