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Published on 05/04/1998 All articles from this issue

Our incomparable modern moms

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By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

A few weeks ago my daughter Carol and I were at her ballet studio trying on her costume for the school show. I helped that squirming 5-year-old bundle of energy into a confection of sequins, feathers, and Spandex, with a headpiece to match. She finally stopped wiggling when she caught sight of herself in the mirror: She was entranced.

I was slightly worried. Would her delight in her tutu make her too concerned with fluffy appearances? Suddenly I wished I was supporting her in a team sport like swimming or basketball, where girls learn to be strong and persevering, and appearances don't count.

I struggled to take in all the instructions I was hearing: label everything with her name, order tickets, be at the rehearsals, dye the shoes - and order a video, they said, if you want one, because parents won't be allowed to videotape at the performance.

I was relieved that we wouldn't be subjected to a crowd of earnest amateur filmmakers, but dismayed at the high price the professional video would cost. This was certainly a lot of show for a 5-year-old, I thought, who's only on stage for two minutes, and maybe it was reinforcing bad ideas about the way she looked, besides. Was it really worth it? Then I sat back on my heels, with a sudden flash of recognition.

I remembered the ballet show I was in as a girl. My mom spent hours sewing that costume, brown satin and chiffon with gold trim, to transform me into a woodland sprite. I spent hours, too, practicing with my class and then, as the show got closer, with the whole school. Mom and Dad drove me uncomplainingly to all the rehearsals. I gloried in the excitement of backstage, the urgency of getting costume and makeup just right, and the smells of dust, rosin, hardwood floors, and hair spray. Afterwards, I was thrilled and proud at what I'd done, and my parents felt the same way.

It wasn't until years later that I realized that I'd only been onstage for less than one minute. My class was an anomaly, you see: We were a beginning class, but we were 12 and 13 years old, too big to be in the cute large group dances, but not skilled enough to have important roles. The teacher had given us a piece of the ballet we could handle, and I never realized how small it was.

I had felt pretty in my costume, yes; but that had been only a small part of my joy in the experience. I had just had fun working hard, being part of the company, learning to be responsible for myself backstage, and feeling the rush of adrenaline of performing. In fact, in a world in which girls couldn't participate in organized athletics, this was the closest I could come to a team sport.

I came back to the present. Carol was now practicing her dance in the mirror. I looked around at the detritus around me: forms to fill out, costume bags, shoes, and drifting feathers from Carol's tutu, and smiled. Far from being a silly waste of time, this was Carol's sport right now, just as worthwhile as baseball or soccer, and I knew I would support her the way my parents had supported me. I would even order the video to share with them: If my folks had been proud parents before, just imagine what proud grandparents they'd be.