01 February 2006
Making the Hard Choices
by Linda Breitag
Listen to an audio version of this MOMbo essay.
Last week, my daughter and I were at a thrift store, looking for pants to fit a growing almost-eight-year-old. We scored several pairs, then drifted around the store separately, with frequent mandatory check-ins on her part. The only thing that makes shopping bearable with my daughter is close proximity to a shoe department. I’ll be checking out books, or scanning shelves for that one totally cool object priced at 1.99, when I hear from afar the scraping, clomping approach of a little girl in women’s shoes. “Mom, LOOK!” she crows, appearing in a pair of huge purple platform boots straight off the Sonny and Cher show. And believe me, she can pull it off. She has the hip moves, the hand gestures, the “I’m too cool for you” head tilts of a bored supermodel. That is, until she collapses in laughter at her own audacity, bending in half and staggering about. When she first manifested this haughty sexuality, my immediate response was “where did you learn THAT?” This is a girl who watches virtually no TV, whose videos I take great care in choosing. Her stock answer is “Nowhere…” Hmmmm. Is this one of those genetic things, like little boys and swords?
Her next exhibit is an over-the-top gold lame strappy sandal with chunky heels at least 2 inches high. They are so glitzy I laugh and say “hey, should we get those for dress-up?” Her eyes widen in delight. How many times have I told her how bad high heels are for growing girls, how she’ll have a million years as an adult woman to be a slave to fashion, even asking why men don’t wear uncomfortable clothes when they dress up, blah blah blah? The shoes go into the cart.
Back at home, I fear I’ve created a monster. The shoes are not coming off her feet. I’m glad she’s having so much fun, but I’m starting to worry about those shortened calf muscles already. “I think it’s time to give your feet a rest, honey,” I say. No dice. “It’s time to take them off,” I say flatly. Reluctantly they disappear. But not for long! Before bed, she asks, “Mom, can I wear my new shoes for my violin recital tomorrow?” “No, beanie, they’re for playing dress-up, remember?” “Pleeeeze?!” “No, sweetie.”
First thing next morning, the shoes are back to haunt me. They NEED to be worn to the recital. I don’t have time to go over the whole “why” thing again and I’m sick of the wheedling. “We’re not talking about it now.” Her little face is full of hope and anguish, and I start to wonder if it’s really that big a thing. I say, “I have to think about it.” Hoping it will go away.
It never goes away. As she bursts through the door after school, her usual “MOM, where are you?” is replaced by a breathless “can I wear the shoes?!” Oh for heaven’s sake. I think for a moment. A mental “pro and con” sheet pops into view. What would be the big deal? She’s a little girl; it would make her so happy. But this violin thing is for real. Her teachers are not pretending, they’re shaping excellent musicians. Plus if she wears them, she’ll be thinking of them instead of the music. Believe me, I know. I used to be a girl, remember? I know how one special, coveted item can feel like it’s giving off heat and light, making YOU the center of the universe, drawing admiring eyes your way… Until you realize it’s just a thing, and no one is really paying all that much attention. But that comes much later. For Sophia right now, it’s life and death.
“Go put them on; let me see,” I sigh. Maybe they’re not as bad as I
remember; after all, the kids do dress up quite fancy for these things. Maybe they’re not that high.
She comes down. Oh no. The sole sticks out a good inch behind her sock, the heels are towering, the glittery gold straps scream out “cheap!” “Sorry, buddy” I say, genuinely sad.
She explodes in tears, runs upstairs, slams several doors. A few minutes later, a piece of paper comes floating down the stairs. On it is drawn a pair of high-heeled shoes in a circle with a big red slash through it. “No high heels allowed!” is scrawled underneath. Slamming door. A minute later, another sheet is hurled over the banister. This one says “I hate gold shoes! I hate high heels.” Slam. Next she storms down and drops the shoes at the foot of the stairs. (At least she knows enough not to throw them down.) But I’m getting nervous. The recital is in an hour. She needs to get dressed, get her hair combed, play through her piece. And be calm. Something is clomping down the stairs. It’s our daughter, hidden under a big bedsheet. The flowered ghost shuffles over to the couch and slumps onto it. I think the message is: “I want to be with you guys, but I’m mad and sad and overwhelmed.” Her dad and I look at each other with a mixture of amusement and grief. It’s the parent’s dilemma: living with very real time constraints without bulldozing over your child’s tender confused heart.
Somehow we make it to the recital. It’s on a professional, raised stage at a nearby college. The performers’ feet are at eye level to the audience. As my daughter walks calmly onto the stage in her dressy long skirt and black clogs with rubber soles, I know I’ve made the right decision. And it’s not about not being embarrassed, or risking the wrath of her serious teachers. Well, not much anyway. No, it’s something else. She may be a little girl, but this is the real thing. She is a real musician, playing real music. This isn’t cute; this is the result of her hard work. This is one thing she does instead of staring at a TV. As she stands in front of the glossy black grand piano, waiting for her teacher to finish tuning her violin, there is no discomfort, no hair-twisting, no foot-shuffling. She stands still, hands relaxed at her sides, looking steadily out over the audience in a way I’ve never mastered myself as a performer. Who is this young woman, I wonder.
Afterwards, she asks “Can I have a recital at home for my friends, and wear my gold shoes?” “Yes, of course, absolutely!” I answer with joy and relief.
“You take such good care of me, Mama,” she says, crawling into my lap.
Linda Breitag is a mom and a musician. She's a regular contributor to MOMbo. Her podcasts can be heard here. |
