Eraser Free

I hurt all over. And, I wish I could say it was nothing. Well, the fact is, in the big scope of life, it’s nothing. But, in the life of my seven-year-old daughter, it’s something and it hurts so bad.

Yesterday my daughter participated in her annual voice recital. Last year, in her first public singing performance, she belted out What a Wonderful World and I couldn’t have been more proud. I remember being so nervous that I could hear my own heart beating. But, that girl took that mic and without hesitation, showed us that she was a fearless performer. Even her teacher was pleasantly surprised at her exhibiting a composure usually reserved for seasoned performers.

Since that performance, she’s crooned her way through two talent shows and a couple of community performances – getting better each time. Her confidence and skills just keep growing and growing.

So yesterday, when my daughter took the mic to sing Colors of the Wind I again experienced heart palpitations that I was sure could be heard into the next aisle. And while my nerves had gotten the best of me, I knew deep down inside that my daughter would again knock it out of the park (I remember saying those very words to my husband at the end of last year’s performance.)

She started beautifully. First stanza was perfect, second just the same. Then something went very wrong (which I really didn’t understand until later.) She skipped ahead and began singing the wrong line. And my cool, composed seven-year old pro turned to her teacher who was playing the piano, and burst into tears.  At that very moment, I swear something burst inside me.

My tears flowed, not like water works, but nonetheless it was as if I couldn’t stop them from streaming down my face. What should I do? Be the stage parent I mock and jump up and run backstage, or wait it out and know that she’s in the hands of professionals and she’ll be back out shortly?

It’s only a misstep, mom. Give her a minute. My heart pounded, minutes passed. No return of Payton. I propelled myself backstage. She was still crying. I wanted to bawl with her. Instead, I pulled her aside for the pep talk. ‘The best of the best forget their words – even artists you listen to, like Hannah Montana’ ( I know, not the “best of the best” I’d normally cite).

Two other young performers followed me and joined our private pep talk. They were right there with me, talking about how forgetting the words happens to all of them. They were great – filled with real-life stories, or modified versions that visibly lifted Payton’s damaged spirit.

 The girls offered to go out and sit in the front row. I offered to join them. We’d all be right there. She agreed. She rushed backstage to be inserted back in the order and we prepared to take our front-row seats.

All was good, right? She looked composed, she saw me, she smiled and she began. First few bars sounded great. She headed into the next few lines and it happened again. My heart sank. An indescribable feeling came over me. I felt like I wanted to scoop Payton off that stage and fly up into the wings of the stage. The pain I felt – her pain – was almost unbearable. I simply wanted to take it all away. Seeing my little girl hurt and humiliated (words she used later) was too much.

I got up out of my seat and headed for the exit doors to again head back stage and comfort my crumpled and defeated daughter. But, as I walked back I heard what I thought was her singing. And by the time I arrived behind the stage I could hear it clearly – she WAS singing.

Apparently, two teenage performers who were next in the wings had accompanied Payton back out on the stage to sing along with her. The most heartfelt act of kindness one could ask for. They stood behind her and sang quietly. About three-quarters of the way through they stopped singing all together.

Payton made it through to the end, and she sounded beautiful. It was almost surreal. My heart still ached and my need to take back the previous scenarios was still overwhelming me. But now my simple tears were of more of joy and less of pain.

After a roaring round of applause, and a few seconds of pause, Payton comes flying through the doors from the wings and bursts into tears – again. While I think that deep down inside she was relieved she’d made it, she told me that it was awful, “this is the worst day of my life,” she confirms.

Even though it’s the next morning and all is calm, I’m feeling like it was one of the worst days of my life as a parent because I can’t seem to expel the pain inside. My baby is still smarting from the day’s events, even though she’s moved on. And, I just want to take it all back.

Parenting is the most rewarding job and the toughest job. Yesterday was an event for the “toughest” column. I know there’s more to come, but I’m not sure how many more my heart can take.

If you’d like, take a look at this video, and keep in mind that this was attempt number three after lots of tears.  And it was made possible because of the boost from the two wonderful girls you’ll see behind her. I can’t thank them enough. And, I can’t thank her teacher enough (she’s the one playing the piano) who is a model of calm and class.

Today is a new day, and Payton is still sleeping peacefully. I can only hope the tears and pain have slept themselves away and she’ll eventually realize what a huge triumph yesterday was.  In my book, she again ‘knocked it out of the ballpark’ –  with just a little help from her friends.