As I observe the teacher drawing names from a green plastic bowl to establish the performance order for the piano and violin recital, I find myself filled with trepidation. It’s the second time this month I’ve been seated in the audience, stomach churning, watching one of my children engage in an activity that fills me with dread.
A whirlwind of emotions engulfs me: pride, admiration, anxiety, and nervousness. First, there was the spelling bee, followed by the piano recital. Two different children, yet the same parent. It’s always me, wishing to shield my kids from discomfort. The same me, forcing a smile while biting my tongue in encouragement.
When my son Ethan triumphed in his class spelling bee and advanced to the school-wide competition, I chose to follow his lead. We reviewed the extensive 450-word list only when he felt inclined. I emphasized how to cope with missteps and reminded him that only one could take the top prize. Deep down, though I would never voice it, I held a glimmer of hope that he might snag the overall win—Ethan has a knack for surprising us.
On the day of the school-wide bee, Ethan appeared composed, despite being the smallest participant who had to stand on his tiptoes to be heard at the microphone. As I signed in as a visitor, I felt nauseous. How could the other parents look so unfazed? My little boy was about to face a crowd of hundreds.
As the rounds unfolded, Ethan walked up to the microphone confidently. However, when the pronouncer said the word “serendipity,” I saw his expression falter. He had never encountered that word before, and a wave of guilt washed over me—we hadn’t practiced that one. He spelled it out, already aware of his mistake, and stepped off the stage. He composed himself until he reached my side, where he finally let his emotions flow.
Meanwhile, my older son Noah was gearing up for his piano performance. He bounced his knee nervously, tapping out the notes on his leg. I couldn’t focus on the other performances; my attention was solely on Noah. My stomach was in knots as I reminisced about my own childhood recitals, where I would try to block out the audience and concentrate on the keys, never looking up even when the applause erupted.
Finally, it was Noah’s turn. He began with “Jingle Bells,” making a small mistake but continuing seamlessly into his favorite piece, “Clair de Lune.” His rendition was breathtaking—flawless, expressive, and more beautiful than anything I had heard from him during practice.
In that moment, I felt a surge of pride. My child had not only succeeded but had outperformed my expectations. I always believed that being on stage was terrifying, yet watching my children face their fears is a whole different level of anxiety.
All I can do is prepare them, and time and again, they astonish me. These young individuals are evolving in ways I never imagined, growing and developing with each passing moment. I strive to manage my fears and insecurities, hoping they can shine without being burdened by my own anxieties. I come equipped with Tic Tacs and Dentyne Ice to help calm my nerves as I support them.
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In summary, the experience of watching my children take the stage is filled with a mix of anxiety and immense pride. As a parent, my instinct is to protect them from discomfort, but witnessing their growth and accomplishments is a reminder of how far they’ve come. Preparing them for these challenges is essential, and I hope to encourage their independence and confidence, even as I manage my own fears.