My daughter taps her microphone, looking up with eager eyes. “Are you watching?” she asks.
“I’m watching,” I reply, settling onto the couch beside our playful Goldendoodle, both of us bracing ourselves for Idina Menzel’s “Let It Go” as it buffers once again on the karaoke app.
This is the third time today.
My middle-schooler shifts in her seat, excitement radiating from her as the intro begins. For a fleeting moment, I let myself indulge in her dream. Perhaps today, she’ll hit those notes right, and who knows? With enough determination and practice, she might just become the star she wishes to be.
She starts singing, and I can feel my ears tense. The dog shifts and retreats from the room mid-chorus.
My daughter, the bright, witty, and kind spirit I adore, gives it her all, hitting a few flat notes along the way.
“Was I good?” she asks, breathless and flushed.
It would be easier to tell a little white lie. I’ve done it before.
- “Mom, do you like my painting?”
“Like it? I love it!” - “Mom, aren’t those leaves amazing?”
“Absolutely! They’re the coolest leaves I’ve ever seen.”
Lying can boost confidence, and sometimes it feels like a necessary part of parenting. But it can also be misleading. Just watch any season of American Idol, and you’ll see countless hopefuls who are completely out of touch with their abilities. This feels like one of those times. My daughter isn’t just singing for fun; she’s genuinely practicing for a Broadway audition.
I realize I’m her mirror and her inner voice. Choosing my words carefully, I say, “It was pretty good.”
“Good enough to audition for The Voice?” she inquires.
“I think you have to be at least 13 for that,” I reply, using it as a way to dodge her question.
“You know what I mean. Good enough to be famous?”
And there it is.
“Well,” I start, trying to sound casual, “everyone has their own unique talent. While your singing is nice, it might not be your standout talent. That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”
“So you’re saying it was terrible.”
Her intelligence could very well be her unique gift.
“No, I’m saying we all excel in different areas. To make it as a singer, you really need to be exceptional at it.”
“Do you think if I take lessons, I could be exceptional?” she asks, hope glimmering in her eyes.
“Maybe,” I reply, wanting to believe. I remember reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers and the idea that mastery requires 10,000 hours of practice.
Years ago, during our Mommy and Me music classes, the teacher—a free-spirited woman straight out of the 1960s—imparted similar wisdom. She believed that no child is born with a good or bad voice; rather, it’s all about exposure to music. She would likely agree with Gladwell that true talent is often the result of hard work.
But even if we can become anything we want with the right effort, do we not need some innate ability as a foundation? If I encourage mediocrity in hopes it will blossom into greatness, am I steering my daughter away from the things that come naturally to her?
In my youth, I loved writing but wasn’t very good at it. The process was often exhausting, yet I persevered, logging my own 10,000 hours without any external encouragement. Now, I’m decent at it, but I’m also grateful for the other creative paths I pursued that provided me with a living.
This karaoke session brings clarity: I should nurture her singing as a passion rather than forcing it into the limelight. If she’s truly dedicated, she’ll keep practicing like I did, singing along to the radio and putting on living room performances, while I play the role of an encouraging but honest judge. Pushing her to prioritize singing now could mean neglecting her other talents.
Then there’s the bigger question—why does she want to be a celebrity?
“Let me ask you something,” I say, picking at a stray piece of fuzz on the couch. “Why do you want to be famous?”
She shrugs. “Because everyone knows you.”
“And for what? Singing? Wouldn’t it be better to be known for something truly impactful, like curing diseases or helping others?”
“I can do all that when I’m famous.”
Touché.
“Here, let me sing it one more time, and you can give me your honest opinion…”
I lean back, ready to listen. To my surprise, her voice is stronger than before.
In the end, it’s about balance—encouraging her passions while also helping her discover where her true talents lie. If you want to read more about navigating these conversations, check out this post on home insemination kit for additional insights.
Summary: The author reflects on the challenges of guiding her daughter’s aspirations while balancing honesty and encouragement. She emphasizes the importance of nurturing passions without misleading children about their talents. Rather than pushing her daughter toward a potentially unrealistic goal of fame, she opts to support her singing as a hobby, allowing her to discover her unique strengths in a nurturing environment.