Hello and welcome to the last
Saturday of January here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Can you believe it? Today is
January 29th.
This week, three of our kid
crew participated in Festival, the annual judging event where students aim to
perfect a piece of music - make a song selection, commit it to memory, and
perform it for a private audience of one judge and one assistant judge. A small
audience is welcome to witness as long as there is no video.
There are moments in a parent's
life when you worry if your kid is going to do well. Anything that requires
them to get up in front of someone else - a teacher, an audience, a crowd of
spectators - is one of those times.
In previous posts, I've written
about how the Third Grader has handled Festival. Long story short: it's usually
rough until she pulls herself together just before walking into the high
school. This past year, we've been working on calming strategies, figuring out
how to saddle the mustang of her emotions so she can ride that horse into the
sunset of her success.
When her piano teacher broached
the topic of Festival my breath hitched. Here we go again, I
thought. But wait, my other brain half paused. Maybe this year will be
different. Don't go into mom-mode just yet. Wait to see how she handles it.
So I pressed my lips together
and watched.
The piano teacher is a pro.
She's spent a thirty-year career smoothing out the nerves of budding musicians.
A force of calm peppered with exuberance like a soft summer rain that
delights and adds sparkle to your plans instead of dashing hopes.
Together, they picked two songs
and the Third Grader went to work. This was last fall. Another smart move on
the piano teacher's part - give her lots of time to prepare.
I don't think the Third Grader
ever shed a tear at her teacher's house, but those early days were fraught at
ours.
"It's too hard!" she
wailed on the very first day she brought home the music.
"Of course it's
hard," I reasoned. "Everything is hard the first time you try
it."
As her confidence grew, the
fraught tears waned. I was cautiously optimistic.
The imminent day finally arrived.
When she came home from school the solemnity of the situation shone in her big
brown eyes. “What’s wrong?” I asked, even though I already sensed the answer.
“Festival is today,” she eeked
out before breaking into a loud sob.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re
ready for this. Remember what we say.”
I am brave.
I may be a little bit nervous.
I doled out all the self-soothing coping strategies like pills from my mama medicine bag. She gulped each one down.
“I’m scared,” she said once she’d
gotten over that first mountain pass of fear.
“You’re not scared; you’re
nervous,” I said, followed by examples of things to be scared of like being
buried alive for 50 hours or sitting in a bath of snakes. (The First Grader has
been playing the Would You Rather game, so these were the first things to pop
into my head.)
“What if I’m bad?” she asked –
without tears, so a step up from the last time we had this conversation.
“You know what?” I started, feeling the thrill of an amazing insight hit my brain like lightening. “You know how some days you do really well on your math test? And other days you don't? Well how does that go?"
"Huh?" She eyed me skeptically, like I was about to say the stupidest thing a mother could say.
"Well, some days you do great, and other days, you’re just terrible.”
Her brown eye orbs got bigger.
Had her mother just said she was terrible?
“What I mean,” I quickly jumped in
before the tears would start, “is that you have plenty of days when you don’t
do well on a math test or you’re spelling is awful – and you’re just fine.”
No matter what happens, you will
be fine.
When we arrived at the school, a
new wave of concerns washed over her. “What do I do? What do I say? How should
I stand?” Fortunately, the Festival judge was standing at the ready and gave her
the lowdown on the protocol. Now, there was nothing to do but wait her turn.
Then a miracle happened.
There are moments as a parent when you sort of want your kids to feel a pinch of failure; to remind them of their mortality and dent their armor of invincibility. In the Festival world, the not-so-secret dirty secret is that there are really only two scores: Superior and everything else. In other words, if you don’t get the highest rating, you’ve failed.
In other words: her brothers had performed, not "terribly", but below their expectations. These two, who’ve sailed through previous Festival performances with all “Superior” ratings, tripped over notes and stumbled on keys. I glanced over at the Third Grader. Was she understanding the significance of this learning moment?
Finally it was her turn.
You didn’t even have to be her
parent to see what was going through her mind: Okay, I’m going
to do this. Gulp. I’m doing this. Yikes, can I do this? Take a deep breath. I’ll
just pretend play the song above the piano keys. How does the song go again?
Deep breath. Okay, I can do this.
From my seat, I beamed our little
mantra, “I am strong. I am brave….”
She adjusted the piano bench one
more time then pressed firmly down on the keys for real.
The music came to life, moving from her mind to her fingers as she traversed through the notes, making her way through the melody. She even remembered to press down on the pedal.
When all was over, the Third Grader earned a "Superior" and both teen brothers received "Excellent." I observed the teens navigating their disappointment while the Third Grader celebrated her success. We still bought the victory ice cream like we have in the past. Over ice cream cones, the kids took turns discussing what they'd just experienced - the teens licking their wounds along with the mint chocolate chip, while the Third Grader savored the sweet success of overcoming her fears yet again.
As a mom, I couldn't have been more pleased. We'd covered two parenting bases in one night: 1) You can do hard things, and 2) Even if you are terrible, you'll be alright.
On This Day
Historic Highlights (credits)
Happy Birthday to You!🎶
Remembering You
Kim
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