When our three daughters, Michelle, Caroline and Christyanne, arrived, there was no question they’d all dance. After all, it had been my own obsession as a girl. I’d logged countless hours at a rural Virginia dance studio owned by a former Rockette. Now a mother, I was determined they’d end up better dancers than me, of the mediocre feet and inflexible back. I’d have them in my lap, crooning, “Point! Flex!” in a singsongy voice, while stretching their tiny feet back and forth. Those little chubby babes would stare up at me wide-eyed, as if saying, “Um, why are we doing this?”
Luckily for me, our girls loved dance as much as I did, the technical work juxtaposed with the glamour, sparkle and rush of performing. Their auditions for the competitive team were successful. I was exploding with pride. My poor husband, though, felt left out of our inner circle of studio drama, best stage makeup brands and constant complaining about how sore we all were. But he was the Best Dance Dad Ever, showing up at hundreds of performances through the years, and clapping the loudest of anyone.
Those teen years were hectic, as we rode around in cheap, clunker cars — dance is expensive — strewn with half-finished water bottles, wrappers from hurriedly-eaten snacks and the occasional lone jazz shoe escaped from a dance bag not properly zipped. Dinner on the table? Never going to happen. Good thing there were convenient Chipotle, Noodles and Whole Foods on that street, so no one starved. (My husband and I wondered why we never had any money). Laundry? Only if we were running out of dancewear.
I’ve heard it said that healthy priorities should be: 1. God 2. Spouse 3. Children 4. Job. My priorities were: 1. Children 2. Their Dance Training. I took pride in being the best possible mother, providing our daughters the potential to become professional dancers if they so chose.
Until I committed my One Big Parental Screwup.
We traveled from Virginia to Maryland for a high-stakes competition. The best of the best in the region were in attendance. Our studio brought a unique production number, chronicling our founder’s legacy, from child dancer to professional Rockette. The piece held suspense, as our daughter Caroline was to surprise the audience with an aerial (basically an upside-down cartwheel in the air), shooting out of the wings like a cannon. All hoped for the coveted top-level platinum trophy.
As my husband and I watched, anticipating Caroline’s Big Trick Moment, we watched her execute merely a simple leap. We looked at each other, mouths agape. What happened?
After the performance, before we were to meet Caroline outside for the long drive home, I ran into the choreographer in the bathroom by the sinks. I apologized to her for Caroline’s “failure,” saying that I hoped it did not lower the routine’s overall score. Lo and behold, who walks out of the stall, having heard my petty, obsequious, codependent words? My daughter.
I will never forget the look of abject misery on her face. Oh, Lordy. This awkward moment was a 9.5 on the Richter scale.
Where was my loyalty? Who was I to speak? I’ve never performed an aerial in my life! Caroline gauged the crowded stage in that moment, and made a split-second decision for her own and other dancers’ safety. I failed to allow my young adult the dignity of her own decision.
She did not speak to me for hours in the car. I felt like the worst loser-mother to grace the streets of northern Virginia.
Upon later reflection, I realized my misguided conversation with the choreographer, which was frankly NONE of my business, was born of my own perfectionism, people-pleasing and shame. I thought of Brené Brown’s quote: “Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging.” I had put all of my childhood insecurities, my feelings of never measuring up, onto my daughter. How dare I?
I composed a 3-page apology and presented it to her that night. She held out her hands for it with tears in her eyes. Wow I caused that, I thought. Man, did I ever suck. Then I backed off for a few days and hoped she’d come around. I didn’t feel like I deserved her forgiveness at all for a mishap of that magnitude. I prayed. I felt like the most ignorant parent ever. Hadn’t I read all the books? Hadn’t I been the person to write letters to the editor of newspapers, regarding local parenting issues? What a colossal hypocrite I was!
Once I heard, ‘All businesses are allowed one big screwup a year.’ What if we could all grant ourselves one major parenting screwup per year? But this wasn’t just my biggest screwup of the year — it was the biggest screwup of my entire parenting career.
Once I heard my sister, a business owner, say, “All businesses are allowed one big screwup a year.” The idea took root in my head. What if we could all grant ourselves one major parenting screwup per year? I included that in my “I’m Sorry” letter to Caroline. But this wasn’t just my biggest screwup of the year — it was the biggest screwup of my entire parenting career. And I wasn’t sure if Caroline was going to forgive me.
Something in my letter must’ve resonated with our Care-Bear. After a few days, thank God she forgave me. Today we have many phone conversations about overstepping boundaries. We talk about the motto, “live and let live” — exactly what I did NOT practice that day at her competition in Maryland.
Now Caroline is 29 and an international model. As I write this, she is getting ready to walk the runways in Milan and Paris. She texted my husband and me: “Mumbo! Daddio! Just landed, and will get fitted tomorrow by all the designers. I love you guys.” We watch her on Instagram, our virtual front row seats to the action.