In Many Ways She is Nothing Like Me

When my daughter was a little girl, she would scamper to the top of one of the big rocks in Central Park, find the highest point, stand tall, and start singing. This big voice would bellow out of this adorable little girl. Often it was Baby Beluga. Sometimes Puff the Magic Dragon. Maybe even the classic ABCs. Whatever song she chose, her sparky energy and magnetic curly locks would find the imagined spotlight and start performing with confidence – perfect singing posture, chin slightly up, voice on-pitch and projecting. She could be heard from the Pinetum to the 85^th Street playground. At least it felt that way. When I was at work and missed the latest spontaneous performance, our nanny would report back to me how many people would stop to listen and ask, “how old is she?” She learned to talk and sing at the same time.

Her comfort in the spotlight was something more than a small child’s lack of self-consciousness. And it grew along with her. In her first “official” role as Tacky in the kindergarten play version of the book Tacky the Penguin she brought the silly, eccentric character to life. We learned then that not only did she never miss a line, but she knew every line in the play so well that when other kids went blank, she would step right in to deliver the forgotten words. I wondered if any of her classmates felt their line was “stolen” by this girl who puzzlingly cared more about the play than the next playdate. I do think she did it for the sake of the play, but patience has never been one of her strengths.

When she was eight or nine, I took her to see the fun and fabulous Everything About a Family Almost at Tada Youth Theater. While I delighted in every musical moment of this charming production filled with young talents, I saw her eyes transfixed. She was like someone standing on a beach who never saw the ocean before. “I want to do that,” she said. And she did.

The Central Park solo concerts gave way to school stages, more demanding youth theater productions, tap dance shows, piano recitals, songwriting and band gigs. I watched with butterflies in my stomach and amazement in my heart. It is impossible to gaze upon your child and not seek, if only for a moment, a reflection of yourself. As she grew and her passion persisted, the search for my own reflection would bring me to this: “Where did she come from??”

She is my daughter, and I definitely gave birth to her. It was a long labor. Thirty-six hours to be exact. I never knew until then that I hadn’t yet experienced true exhaustion. I guess my life had been fairly restful up until my first baby decided to make a dramatic entrance, 10 days past her due date in late August of 1999, apparently The Hottest Year of the Millennium. The heat combined with the baby weight transformed me into a hippopotamus, my ankles so swollen the anatomy of my legs seemed to have reversed. Wait for it. Wait for it. Here she is!! Finally, nearly at the end of the month, she entered the world with loud lungs, chubby cheeks and the energy of the tap dance finales in her future. I remember about three or four months later, having coffee with a mom I met in a baby group, she started to cry, I mean really cry with open throat and full lung capacity. The look on my mommy friend’s face, raised eyebrows, said silently “wow, I thought my baby could be loud, but now I know I’m one of the lucky ones.” I felt her gaze wondering if I had the mother’s magic touch that could calm my baby down. I left the Starbucks without finishing my latte.

My mother always said I was a quiet child. I imagine I let her linger over coffee.

My quiet, calm character meant I wasn’t quite suited for the overly involved “stage mom” role, yet I did feel the strong instinct of a mother’s need to protect. I’m not sure from what exactly because in every performance moment there was no denying her happy glow. I guess I wanted to protect her from someone else’s agenda, whatever it might be. I wanted to protect her from feeling like she had to do something a certain way for it to be “good.” I wanted to protect her from the potential of losing the joy in something she so clearly loved.

I look back now and realize I was protecting myself too. Perhaps protecting my priorities first and foremost. I wanted to protect our family dinners, every-day routines, school life, weekends away, extended family vacations, social time, down-time, sleep. Like holding a child’s hand crossing the street, I wanted to squeeze life’s simple joys and keep them closer than the enticing possibilities that might take them away.

In truth, I may have also been protecting myself from being afraid that she is nothing like me. Watching her on stage and off — her confidence, raw talent, steadfast focus and ability to know and be present with exactly what she loves — has at moments felt like observing an exotic animal at the zoo. I pause to look at its movements, try to relate to its natural instincts and wonder if there is a fundamental connection I can find to this other creature I observe.

The extent of my own experience on stage was over by the time I finished sixth grade. That was the year I played Helena in Midsummer Night’s Dream. I remember the heart racing nerves and inability to really understand how my awkward 12-year-old self could “play” this confused, lovesick fair maiden. I was much happier the year before when I danced around the stage in a fairy costume, I think it was The Tempest, comfortable in an ensemble role. It’s not that I’m shy, it’s just that I have always felt intimidated by the spotlight and those who relish in it. I’ve worked hard to achieve a calmer confidence saying what I need to say in both personal and professional settings, and for this I give myself a little applause.

So, there was no thread I could tie back to my own childhood experience as I continued to watch my little girl grow into a “triple threat” performer. Her efforts culminated her senior year in high school with the thrill of a lead role: Rosemary in How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. For all the lost family dinners, missed weekends away, worry about lack of sleep, conflict sheets, rescheduling of appointments and second priorities left in the dust, I finally opened my eyes and heart wide enough to see that this was not about things lost. It was about how much she has to gain. Comfortable in my second-row seat, I watched her move, sing, and deliver moments of character, charisma and comedy that the audience adored. I watched her become part of something bigger than herself and saw that she was exactly where she was meant to be, at least from my view (hers may be different). Hours after the final curtain, I let the tears roll only when no one was watching me, overwhelmed with pride and awestruck by her accomplishment.

“She looks just like a mini-you on stage,” a friend said, a friend who came to see the show who doesn’t know her. “I see so much of you in her.” Maybe that was the simple observation I needed to hear. My seeking my own reflection was missing what was so evident to someone else. An outsider’s distance made me see it too. Physical presence and more, she is part me. My husband’s disposition and single-minded focus is so often more evident, but I am there both on the surface and underneath. She was born with stage presence; I have always been happy to play whatever role is needed behind the scenes. More significant than any of our differences, there is love. A kind of love that is uniquely mother to daughter. Filled with complexity and a profound sense of being at once the same and completely opposite. Beyond the emotion, there is a physical place in my heart where I hold her. At times I want to hold so tight I might lose circulation.

And now, four years past that moment, I know there are many little pieces of me inside of her, on-stage and off. She is a young woman whom I admire and respect and argue with and laugh with and try to reason with and share my flaws with and do my best to patiently listen to and try to comfort when she is sad. We try to savor some of life’s simple moments together too, like when we find ourselves having a spontaneous family dance party. I can make her laugh, with me or at me, I am never totally sure. I was even a trending dancing Tik Tok mom once thanks to my comfort in the spotlight next to her! In the end, I don’t care at all who is watching, as long as for a fleeting moment I can hold her gaze, savor it, smile right back at her and feel our connected DNA. We become one. One combined force made up of two-generations of girl power dancing together on the stage that is the kitchen floor.

In less than two months she will graduate from a prestigious drama school; on paper perhaps already achieving part of the “dream” that has seemed to define her direction since before she was even aware, when her cute curls and big voice commanded a pause from passers-by in Central Park.  “I’ve had this dream since I was a little girl, mom. I’ve always wanted to perform and be on stage, but now I’m not sure how I feel about it,” she shared with me. There is so much complexity in the world right now that she is grappling with. It was early February, and we were enjoying many deep and thoughtful topics of conversation during our eight-hour drive together, our last road trip back to Pittsburgh. “Dreams can change, evolve, maybe take on new definition,” I suggested, not really knowing how to respond to the skepticism she has developed, not to mention the overwhelmingly sad feelings that come with entering an industry in a moment devastated by a pandemic. I have no doubt she will find a way to make it work, in whatever way she decides. There will be achievements, disappointments and all the highs and lows in-between. Maybe she will change course. Whatever it is, she will shine in the spotlight. “Keep following your dreams,” I told her. I will be there to play the supporting role.

Postscript: Since you read this far I am offering a special treat (my theater mom side is coming out now 😉😍), here is my daughter performing an original song this past December for a student-run theater festival (of course virtual in 2020) called Playground. A pandemic, everything is different than expected senior year song and moment to be remembered.