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Illustration: Mary Kirkpatrick
What can we learn from our children that we don't know yet? As parents, we should be leaders, but we don't always feel that way. Are there things like interest rates and food costs that you used to understand but have started to forget? Perhaps we have actually modeled all of our children's idiosyncrasies and emotions, tantrums and fits. They will have more to teach us than they can.
A case in point might be my 3-year-old son's concert a few months ago. His class spent several weeks learning and practicing three Christmas carols. Before the big day, he serenaded us at the kitchen table. Bright-eyed and happy, he waved his fork back and forth to emphasize the song. Gradually, it became clear that there were two different songs of his about building a snowman, given the optimistic aspects of reheated macaroni and grapes and carrots. frosty the snowman The other thing is, as far as I know, five ducklings.But the real star of the show will be the timeless classic Jingle bell.
Like many kids his age, he was never nervous about performing. After arriving at school and exchanging seasonal pleasantries with other parents, we watched him and his classmates come out for his first and only performance. He was smiling in the front row, wearing a Santa hat, and we were seated next to one of his friends, who we often talked to during dinner.
It was clear from the look on his face that he had no idea whether he could sing well enough or whether the audience would care. That kind of awareness had not yet emerged. All he cared about was that Mom and Dad would watch over him and sing his songs. With a look of joy on his face, my son cheerfully began to sing the opening lines, and I felt a sense of happiness that I hadn't felt since we stood on stage and sang together as children. I did. Before I grew up and became part of the audience.
He had been given a bell. Later, I realized with a warm inner pride that he was perfectly on time, happily belting out the lyrics as he swung his little arms up and down to the beat, feeling more than learning. Ta. The reason I was able to pay attention to these details is because the first time I saw him perform was actually the day after I got home.
I was alone in my living room, trying to figure out what he meant when he told me in the car on the way home that I “didn't get enough applause.” On the screen, I could see him looking at me, using the same laptop I was using now. As I watched the approximately 20 second video, I could see him searching around the room for his mom and dad.
We had been talking about this performance for the better part of a month, and we both talked about how excited we were to see him sing the songs his teacher taught him and learned with his first friends. When we did, he trusted us.
But instead of seeing me smiling back at him, he looked into my camera lens, hid my face, occupied my hand, and held it tightly as I held it tight. Now you can make sure the video you email to your grandparents is clear and good. – Composed.
“Dad, clap louder next time. Don't hold the camera,” he advised me later.
On the recording, it was sad to see him go from happy to confused and then back to a slightly less happy state. I didn't feel any guilt toward his father. After all, I only had good intentions. But I also felt that sadness. I can't help but wonder if a more conscious layer took hold, even if the distraction was temporary and I quickly regained my composure, just like my kids do. It all comes down to wanting me to be completely happy and in the moment like he is, instead of him busily saving his performance in digital form so he can watch it after it's over. That's because.
Don't get me wrong, this is different that It's a sad story. His son still enjoyed singing, so we had a rare dinner out on the way home, and intermittently accepted what had happened with fish, chips, and the first fried pickle he ever had. .
But we brokered a deal. Next year I decided to leave my camera at home and instead focus on the moments.
John Burns lives in Acton, Ontario.
