Proud Parent

When I was growing up, the worst thing my parents could tell me was that they were disappointed. It was always because I had failed in some moral aspect of life (lied, cheated, punched my little brother). Remorse would reign afterward. I'd be in a spiritual deficit until my Mom or Dad would once again reassure me that I was loved, and they just didn't want me to do whatever I had done again.

Because I wanted to feel that way as little as possible, I sought the counter comment, the best thing my parents could say to me, which was 'we are so proud of you.'

It wasn't a remark that came every day - it was generally saved for special, landmark achievements (lead girl at St. Edmund's, Cum Laude at Ellis, All Big East, an MBA and better yet a job, marriage, a house, and kids) or sometimes it was a small gesture that signaled to my parents they had raised me right (writing a letter to my Grandma, delivering Christmas cookies to Mrs. Taylor's, playing nicely with my little brother). When they shared their pride, I would light up inside. Inspired, I kept pushing myself, working hard, trying to choose right from wrong, steering clear of disappointment.

***

Having my own kids now, I'm starting to understand the pride piece a little better. The moments when you just want to shout, 'BRAVO!' 

At first, I was just proud to have a little baby to hold. Then proud of her rolling over, sitting, walking and talking. Later on, I was proud of her surviving day care, eating all of her dinner, knowing her shapes, numbers, and ABCs. I was proud of her running, swimming, sledding, and peddling her tricycle. I was proud of her as she went into Pre-K on the first day and when she returned home with her first 'report card.'

... And I was very proud when they both sat on Santa's lap without crying a couple weeks ago. 

But the other night, I felt a different kind of pride. An excited, giddy, emotional, can't stop saying how proud I am pride. I think the same kind that was occasionally showered on me during some of my best moments as a kid. 

On Saturday, Mary was in her first dance recital. She had been practicing over the past couple weeks, and she was so excited. Her class was to wear green shirts, black stretch pants, reindeer antlers, and a little bit of make-up. I topped it off with a big green bow in her hair. She looked adorable. At 5:30 PM, the dancers were called to the cafeteria of the high school. She was dance routine number 18 (of 21!), and had to sit at Table #18 with a helper who would do crafts with her class until it was time for them to go on stage. No mommies allowed; I had to go find a seat in the auditorium. 

As I said goodbye and good luck, Mary's eyes welled up. There was a steady roar of girl laughter, gossip and the occasional shriek rising across the room. Mary didn't know this place, this helper or what was coming next. A little girl named Olivia from her class, with the cutest pink glasses, told Mary to sit by her. Mary complied and I sneaked out of the realm of chaos into a packed, dark auditorium where Mimi, Opa and Gigi were saving seats. 

I sat there through 17 acts, getting more and more nervous for Mary. I saw other three year olds walk out on stage and bawl. One or two yanked from it because of their tears. Mary was going to do it too, I was certain. Why had I put her through this at such a young age?! 

Number 18 - 'Here Come the Reindeer' - it was finally her turn. In the dark, I made out the little green shirts walking out onto the stage. The lights came up, the music came on. And ... no one was crying. Mary was beaming ear to ear, dancing next to her new friend Olivia, prancing to the beat, turning, shaking, stepping and pointing when she was supposed to. She knew every step and was enthused doing them. 

When the music stopped and they exited stage left, I clapped and cheered ecstatically. I was SO PROUD of her. As the last act came on stage, I booked it to the cafeteria, I couldn't wait any longer. I found her sitting with her class all in a row at table 18. She lit up when she saw me. I gave her a big hug and told her just how proud and happy I was. I couldn't stop telling her it either. I was amazed at her independence, confidence, and rhythm. She was smiling ear to ear, and told me 'oh thank you, Mom.' Like it was nothing at all.

We saw her dance teacher on the way out and I thanked her for all that she had taught Mary this year.

The next morning, Mary wanted to wear her green shirt and black stretch pants to Church. She wore them all day, watching the fuzzy video that Peter had recorded of her dance over and over again, until I told her she needed to change for dinner at Mimi and Opa's house. She kept the antlers on though. My girl. 

So I'm thinking pride is a lot like love; it just keeps growing and multiplying over time as they continue to assert their independence, apply themselves, make new friends, step to the beat, and choose right from wrong. But I guess as pride grows, so too does the potential for disappointment, which I'm really not looking forward to. What my parents taught me though, is that if you candidly, genuinely communicate both to your kids, they will likely gravitate toward the choices that make everyone happy.

Lo.