First published in the Tri Town Transcript Nov 19, 2016
By Esther C. Baird
It’s elementary school play season at Casa Baird. Both of our girls have always been part of the play, but this year, our fourth-grade daughter went from her previous obscure role as munchkin number three to the co-lead in the children’s musical.
She was cast as the birthday girl who threw a party where all the grownups inexplicably vanished. The plot got a little Lord of the Flies before order and peace were restored, except a young kid version — no pig heads on stakes and more water balloons, bright colors and singing.
Obviously, I was a train wreck the day the cast list came out. I was beyond excited for her and instantly nervous. I was proud yet panicked. But she was super cool and calm. So I followed her lead. For example, she had one solo set in a tree house where the timing was tricky. As she sang, I would tap my foot or bob my head. OK, sometimes I’d count out loud. Whatever.
Thankfully, as Regular Readers know, I have a small gum chewing habit (which I’ve officially quit in case you see my dentist). So during this moment of musical stress, I could chomp my gum to the beat and manage to look calm and serene on the outside.
All was going well. The grandparents were coming from out of town. I had a meal plan for three nights of play performances conveniently running during the dinner hour. And we had found a costume for her that said, “birthday girl who can keep it together and sing, perhaps even sparkle, when the laws of physics seem to have stopped working and all the children turn against you.”
But the night before the dress rehearsal, after what had been an easy bedtime, she came out in tears. “I can’t find Hedgehog!!!” she cried.
What?? I mean, sure, I knew Hedgehog: It was a teeny tiny stuffed animal that often could be found sitting on Revere’s massive lap. (Revere, you may recall, is our life-sized Costco teddy bear.)
“But Sweetie,” I clarified, “Hedgehog isn’t a main stuffed animal. I mean, you have Black Kitty and Gala the Stingray. … They’re right here.”
I patted the familiar animals that had prominent places in her stuffed-animal kingdom hierarchy.
“But I’ve looked everywhere and Hedgehog is GONE!!! I can’t sleep if I don’t know where every single animal is!!!“
I stared at her bed. She had about 15,000 million animals.
“Well …” I began picking up covers, peering under the bed and searching between the folds of the purple canopy that hung from her ceiling. “I’m sure he’s here, but you really need to sleep. He’ll turn up.”
“He won’t!! I can’t sleep! And,” she took a deep breath. “What if I forget all my lines and can’t sing and the play is awful!?!”
Aha. OK then.
Missing microscopic hedgehogs were not totally my skill set, but freaked out pre-play nerves, yes. That I was familiar with. I did all the things you do. I reminded her of all her hard work, that she knew her songs so well we often had to tell her to stop singing them for our sanity, that in just three days she’d be so sad it was over and that she was going to be wonderful. I rubbed her back as she began to get drowsy.
And good thing, because I could not for the life of me find Hedgehog. Had the fate of the universe hung on it, we’d be toast. Thankfully, it only hung on the jangled nerves of a child who could still simply decide to stop being nervous, roll over and fall asleep.
I decided to not be nervous and … lay awake all night.
The play came. The grandparents came. The food was made. The costumes were perfect, and the show was great — all four of them. Our daughter shone like the star we knew she was. And while the grownups in the play eventually reappeared, it was clear that sometimes kids know how to choose calmness far better than the grownups around them.