So, this time it’s different. Not a blog post about being a fairly shit mother. About embarrassing interludes and questionable actions. No. This is the one in which I chronicle the scoring of a hattrick. Where I *think* I am awesome. Yes, AWESOME.
You’re going to have to bear with me on this one. Because it’s more than a little tiger mom-esque. A self-indulgent maternal moment. Blatant bragging. And because, to be honest, it wasn’t me that smashed the ball out of the park. It was my long-suffering offspring.
I’m talking ballet show. The Biannual Ballet Show, no less. In the theatre, with full make up and costumes and a scary stage manager who warns the assembled crowd of 3-17 year olds that “no alcohol is permitted back stage” (nor are knickers, huh?) All three children took part. All three were awesome. I shed tears – the great gulping kind – at the sight of them merrily tapping and tiptoeing their way through several Disney numbers, smiles (awkward in some cases) plastered all over their faces. But it wasn’t just the performance. It was their attitude.
They spent the whole weekend closeted backstage at the theatre. So, no play dates or movie nights or bike rides. No chill out time. No sneaky Saturday snacks from the cupboard of joy. No, they gave up their weekend for the sake of their art. And Chicken was in her element with all her dancing girls and didn’t mind a bit about being so utterly upstaged by her younger siblings (Beefy being bigged up as the only boy, Pudding winning every goddam prize for cuteness). My boy held his own (and his iPad) in the company of dozens of twittering backstage girls, succumbing to makeup and endless rehearsal, and willingly taking to the stage despite sickening nerves (which actually made him look like he was about to vomit, but – I realised – made me look like I’d made him do it). As for Pud, she took it all in her stride and my terrible tomboy did not flinch (or throw anything, including punches) when put into makeup, a sparkly dress (with wings!) and – heaven forbid – a ponytail.
As for me? I revelled in their reflected glory. Smiled benignly at the compliments. As if we were the bloody Von Trapps. As if this perfect parental shit goes down every day in our rose-tinted household. Making like it was all down to me. My own exquisite production. Stressy mum was relegated a back seat. The customary domestic ‘to do list’ awaiting me at home was forgotten. And I relaxed. Basked even.
In fact, I chilled so much that the rest of the week was a total dream. Further achievements came thick and fast: Pudding finally dropping the nighttime nappy, Beefy at last getting to grips with his handwriting, Chicken soldiering through chronic earache to deliver rounders at the school tournament. *more glory basking* This could become a habit.
And then. It dawned on me: these little-big things are always there. Daily, weekly, monthly milestones ticked off. A hundred amazing mini-moments shaping our days. But I don’t always have – or take – the time to appreciate them. Yet I’m so goddam proud of them. These little people making their way boldly through the process of growing up. Making sense of life, and of themselves. Despite my daily disasters and seat-of-the-pants parenting they are growing to be real people. Good people. And all the while, as I puff out my chest with pride, I’m thinking: I MADE them! I bloody did, I MADE them. Who’d have thought? I am a goddam legend.
Unaccustomed as I am to getting it right, I just have one nagging doubt. A small voice inside that can’t help whispering, “is it because of me, or in spite of me”? Because pride always comes before a fall. Doesn’t it?