What I Learned as a Ballet Mama

True confession--I was and am not the best ballet mama.  Okay true, true confession, I very well may be the worst "ballet mama that lasted for 16 years" in the history of ballet mamas.  That was pretty clear from the very beginning....

Sarah Katherine started talking about taking ballet before she was 2 years old.  She begged me to beg Miss Leslie, our neighbor, good friend, and owner of the dance studio, to let her take it before she was 3.  I, the total rule follower and the rule was you had to be 3, refused, so she begged. Miss Leslie didn't give in, but one month before Sarah Katherine turned 3, she started taking dance and she hasn't stopped since.

That same year we signed her up for soccer.  She liked it "fine" but said she would only continue if I would make her more smocked dresses with soccer balls on them and if I promised she wouldn't have to head the ball because it messed up her bow--needless to say, that was our one and only season.  So this tomboy, who played on the boys high school soccer team at Marist because there wasn't a girl's team, went to her first ballet open house to buy all the stuff you need to take dance as a 3 year old. (Thank goodness for good friends like Katie Hardwick Dillon who went with me that first time to try to navigate the merchandise and get out before I spent an exhorbitant sum of money--that came later!)

That first year was quite a learning experience.  Who knew the tights went on under the leotard?  And buns?  Good grief--even with those ridiculously expensive crocheted bun holders putting hair in a bun is a feat I have never accomplished.  Sarah Katherine would try to explain to me how to do it, first patiently and then with a fury of a determined 3 year old which only led to more tears--from both of us.   After the first two weeks Leslie diplomatically suggested that since I had 2 baby boys at home and was pregnant again, it might help if I send SK over to her house a few minutes early so she could put her hair up.  Thank you Leslie--you very well may have saved our mother/daughter relationship.

Leslie also introduced me to the world of ballet mamas.  Actually she threw me in there like raw meat to a pack of savage, starving wild beasts.  Leslie asked me to "control the mamas backstage so that she could focus on the show.  Please," she asked me, "don't let them out of the dressing area."  If I wasn't already a drinker,  I would have been after that evening. Chris got to be the "bouncer" keeping people from videoing and taking flash photography during the show.  I think he secretly liked it although one grandmother threatened to hit him with her "pocketbook the size of a suitcase." And Leslie, for the record, while I still have, love and use those tea glasses you gave me, it wasn't enough!

Well life happened and we moved again and again and again.  With every move one of my first goals was to find a ballet studio for SK.  She was very specific.  She wanted training in classical ballet; she didn't want to compete; she wanted good technique, and she wanted to get better.  I'm here to tall you I didn't get better as a ballet mama.

I entered every studio determined not to make eye contact; determined that no one would know I sewed.  I sat with mamas who talked about summer intensives and serba.  I had no idea what any of that meant, but thank goodness for friends like Janie Banse who patiently explained it to me--and yes SK wore the opal earrings in each of her auditions just as Janie suggested.  I had no idea what it meant that pointe shoes were "dead" and I just trusted that SK did. She was on her own much of time.  She was putting her hair up on her own by the time she was 6 (I tried but Leslie wouldn't move with us), she sewed her own pointe shoes, pancaked her own shoes--or whatever you pancake; figured out what makeup she needed, and packed her own dance bag each and every day.

A few years ago I gained a new appreciation for SK's love of and passion for dance.  She wrote an essay in which she said that when she danced it was the only time she stopped worrying about school and grades and  friends and could just be free.  She wrote that her mind went blank and and happiness pulsed through her body.  I didn't totally understand it when I read those words.  She spent 20-30 hours a week in the studio; her feet bled; she missed social events; and she slept very little studying late into the night after coming home exhausted from dance.  I didn't understand how this was her release when it looked like a medieval torture chamber to me, but I did understand that she needed it.  That day I stopped calculating the hours I spent driving her to dance (I did celebrate when she got her license and I got to stop), the money we spent on leotards and pointe shoes, and I understood that letting her be who she was--letting her choose what she sacrificed to fulfill her passion was a decision I had to let her make--my job was to be supportive.  And I understood that day why the fall of second grade when she broke her foot (twice) and her arm and couldn't dance she was so angry.  That was a long fall and one I didn't understand--I learned that day that the passion of an 8 year old is real.

For the most part I let SK navigate the ballet world on her own.  I think I may always wonder if I did enough, was involved enough--there was one time...Sarah Katherine came home n tears.  In her perception she was being overlooked; she wasn't being critiqued in class, she wasn't getting parts, and she wanted to get better.  I asked her if she was sure this was what she wanted.  Did she really want to continue at this level, this many hours.  Did she really want to continue to miss out on high school events-if I'm honest I was slightly hoping she would say yes she did want to back off some, but that's because she was doing high school differently than I did, and I didn't totally get it.  -She said it was absolutely what she wanted and tiger mama came out.  We made an appointment with the director and went in together.  I was shaking; I had no idea what I would be told, and even as an adult I was terrified.

We talked and the director said, "we don't pay as much attention to you because we don't know how committed you are.  In your last conference you said you weren't sure if you wanted to dance past high school."  This may be the only time I allowed my anger to be as visible in front of a child. Honestly I thought my head was going to pop off; I wanted to lunge across the room and grab her and shake her (she had a baby in a sling which may have been the only thing that stopped me from doing that)-if you told me my head spun around and green phlegm spurted from my mouth I would believe you.  Instead I said through clenched teeth, "I think what perhaps you should focus on is that she has not decided.  She wants the option and it is your job to make sure she has that.  It is not your job to crush her dreams."  I didn't add, "And we pay as much as anyone else in that class" but I wanted to and I also wanted to add "and if your daughter chooses traditional sports and not dance I hope that you will stand on every sideline and cheer her on and I hope someone will coach her who will encourage her passion and who will support her because our children are not extensions of ourselves-- they are their own people with their own passions and dreams.  It is not our job to crush them at 15 years of age.  It is our job to support their dreams and let them take them as far as they want to or are able to."

Sarah Katherine continued to dance all through high school although this year she did cut back on the hours. She continues to love it, and she continues to work hard.  Tonight, Chris, Christopher, William, Caroline, Daddy, Marguerite, a slew of friends and myself will head downtown to watch her final showcase.  As I'm preparing for the emotional night ahead I'm reflecting on the life lessons I have learned through these years of being a (lousy) ballet mama.

She's back in your charge next year Holland!

1.  Ballet may not be a team sport in the way traditional team sports are, but they build camaraderie and they build mentoring.  The older dancers mentor and care for the younger ones even on their "special" nights.  Children need older children to be their role models and their mentors.  Teenagers may seem totally self centered, but they step up when they want to and when they're given the space and responsibility.  They are the best teachers and their love and acceptance are never forgotten.

2.  The world our children are growing up in is stressful in a way we never experienced.  Children need something in their lives that allows them to be free and to release the stress--with the pain fresh in my heart of what happens when a child doesn't have that or hasn't found that, I cannot stress this enough.  Make the time and find what resources you have to provide this even if it's hard, even if you don't understand it.

3.  People are at their best when they are living their passions.

4.  Teenagers are not all manipulative and backstabbing.  Every year SK has friends who show up for showcase who may or may not have ever danced.  Every year friends take time out of their lives, choose the showcase over a party, and cheer SK on regardless of the role she has.  (Some even drag along boyfriends....)  Good friends recognize and support each others' passions.


5.  Allowing children to be who they are and live their passions even when you don't understand them builds character.  They have to take on more responsibility because no book can give you all the answers. (Read it anyway) It may cause guilt for you, but it's good for them.  Get involved when you have to; otherwise, let them handle it--they can.


6.  Sometimes you may have to overcome your own fears and/or your own wants in order to support your child in their passion.  You may have to speak up fully aware that you don't understand the complexities; speak up when you have to.  It's our job as parents.

7.  Families can get involved in anything.  Bribery may be necessary...

Pittsburgh Ballet Nutcracker

8.  Children are smarter than and more attuned to what their limitations are than we give them credit for being.  If we could limit the noise of  adults constantly telling children how great they are or how mediocre they are, they could figure it out.  They'll know when it's time for that last curtain to go up or that last field to be played.  Whether it's elementary, middle, high school, college or professionally, even when it's the right time, it's hard, it's scary, it's emotional.  Be there.


It's been an interesting 16 years as a ballet mama.  I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Final three life lessons I've learned:
1.  How to "do" all five ballet positions
2.  Dixie cups filled with water and frozen make excellent ice packs for shin splints
3.  NEVER be best friends with the dance studio's owner!

What happens?

The day after I gave birth to Sarah Katherine, I remember standing at the window of the hospital room, looking out at the people walking around and thinking, "do they know my life just totally changed?"  I remember Chris and I snuggled in the hospital bed with our first born and saying to one another, "our world just stopped and totally shifted and yet outside of this room people are going to work and school and running errands like nothing has changed, not knowing that just a few paces away people's lives were changed never to be changed back.  The world fundamentally changed for us; this is huge but outside of this room life just continues in the same way it did 24 hours ago."  I remember feeling like I am different and I will never go back to who I was a few days ago, but no one will know just by looking at me. And I remember feeling like I was frozen in this change and the world going on around me was like watching a movie.  I felt this each and every time I had another child.  I've described this feeling to others and have been told others have had  similar experiences.

I have also felt this at other times n my life--the death of my grandmother, the divorce of my parents..and I'm told by others that they have had this experience--at an engagement, a wedding, a death, a diagnosis.  Although these experiences are often personal, in the church we mark them as a community.  We acknowledge and honor them through the blessing and baptism of a child, a wedding, a funeral, through prayers of the people, healing services, and various other rites.  We bring our individual stories, our stories that shape and form us and unite them to others' stories in the community and ultimately to the story of God.  It is important, and it is powerful.

But that's not how these experiences always happen; they are not always positive and life giving. Sometimes these experiences come with an immense amount of pain, sometimes they come out of nowhere and knock you off the very foundation of your life you believed was solid.  Sometimes these moments come, these life changing shifts come when you least expect them and feel the least capable of managing them.  And then what happens?  What happens when your world changes and you are alone?  What happens when what in the past has been a  feeling an experience of life change that you share becomes an experience of isolation and shame? What happens when this shift becomes a dagger repeatedly and unceasingly stabbing your heart and you're in the dark sobbing, howling, from the depths of your soul, trying to make sense of this new world that has just been forced upon you, and you're alone?  What happens when this experience reaches out and seizes your heart and soul engulfing you in a fear and state of panic that never leaves you and there are only a very few people with whom you can share? What happens when initially the first few minutes that you wake up every morning are some of the only peaceful ones you have because you haven't yet remembered, and then over time even as you begin to adjust to your new normal you never know when the fear and anxiety, the shift, will violently penetrate the life you're trying to begin to live again?  What happens when the church, the very place you have marked every other shift becomes the very place you least want to be?  What happens when you no longer feel safe in the place where you have always sought refuge?  What happens when even thinking about the church illicits feelings of isolation, fear, and shame? What happens when you are in need of comfort and love and support and the comments people in the church have made in the past continually reverberate in your mind like a never ending recording taunting you and daring you to expose yourself, but you know or believe that sharing this will only bring judgement, condemnation, gossip, pity and alienation?  What happens when you begin to doubt the church you have seen rise to so many occasions and help those in need because it is the ordinary days, the casual conversations that happen in church that in your pain you remember?  What happens when it is those memories, the memories of comments carelessly made, when it is in those offhand minor innocent comments through which you are suddenly and acutely aware of the attitude of intolerance, judgement, and self righteousness hidden just below the surface?  What happens when you realize you may even have uttered some of them?

As I was thinking about all of that, praying about it all, I remembered a question that was in the Ask the Clergy box this past weekend at Spring Gathering.  It said, "Does God disown gay people?" (that was the question, but any thing can be placed after 'Does God disown____________')  I immediately and solidly and probably fiercely said, "Absolutely not.  God doesn't disown anyone--no one; God loves everyone, no exceptions."  I believe that--no experience, no life changing moment can ever topple me from that foundation regardless of inane comments people in the church make.  But this morning I'm left with this question, God disowns no one, but knowingly or not, does the church?  I'm afraid that may be the answer to the "what happens?"  and this challenges me, and I hope it challenges the church, but today, today I am just sad.

Violence and Blessing

Last November Sarah Katherine and I went to North Carolina for a youth conference.  As we drove into the city limits of Louisville we were listening to the local news show.  We both went silent as we caught the tail end of a story--there had been a murder at the Hubbards Lane Kroger. That's our Kroger, less than a mile from our house; the Kroger I send my children to; the Kroger where we always shop--our neighborhood.  I am not proud to say the first thought that went through my mind was, "I hope it was a targeted murder."  I didn't want the peace and security I believed was my neighborhood to be infiltrated by random violence.  I wanted there to be a reason--good or bad--but a reason that would keep my perceived reality from clashing with the reality of the world where brutality lives.

Over the next few days I became obsessed with the news story.  It broke my heart to recognize the victim, a store manager.  There was a constant police presence at the store which instead of creating feelings of security and safety only accentuated my fear that seemed to penetrate my very being.  I only shopped during the daylight hours, and I wouldn't allow any of the children to go without me.  As I drove through the neighborhood or ran through the streets I was keenly aware of every movement; as I passed people walking or driving, I studied their faces trying to place them. Did I recognize this person?  Had I ever seen this car before?  As the days turned into weeks, the holidays approached, and the grip of fear that knotted my stomach began to loosen.  And then came January 9....

Listening to the news one night while fixing dinner I heard, "An arrest has been made in the Kroger shooting."  I whipped my head around and froze.  An arrest had been made, and I recognized the suspect.    I tried to wade through  the paralysis that descended on my intellect and  froze my mind, my mind that just kept repeating, "it can't be; it can't be". I tried to focus on what the news people were saying.  Not much.  Robbery was all they'd say for motive.

As the news cut to a commercial, I turned off the TV and tried to make sense of my new world. This young man who had just been arrested was one of my favorite baggers.  He always remembered that when I was buying food for the food pantry I wanted brown bags, and he always piled extras on top.  He called me "preacher lady," and he always had a smile.  I wanted there to be a mistake.  He was pleasant, nice and polite--just like my boys.  

Over the past weeks and into months I have continued to try to find motive.  I have wanted to know about his life.  Right or wrong, I have been more invested in finding out about his life than in the victim's.  I have wanted to be able to reconcile the boy I knew with the man who shot and killed his co-worker in cold blood.  I have been plagued by what I have seen as irreconcilable differences in who he is.  I have wanted to know what his story was; what happened in his life to lead him to this senseless act of violence?  Or was he pure evil and had fooled me all along?  I wanted to sever any possibility that this paradox that seemed to live within him could live within my boys or anyone I love and hold dear.  I wanted him to be either/or and I wanted him to be both/and; and I have lived and wrestled with the tension.  I wanted there to be no way that anyone I loved could ever resort to violence because they were "too good", and I wanted to believe that there was goodness in this young man.   Every time I'm in Kroger I think about both these men and how many lives were changed that one fateful night.  I want to feel safe in Kroger again, and while I don't stay away, I am still always on high alert.  Frankly, I want my bubble world, the world that only exists in my mind, to return.

This past weekend my dear friend Emily and I were talking about Ashes to Go.  What did we think about them?  Both of us thought there was power in them, and both of us struggled to find the theological language to support what we wanted.  As we were wrestling with this, I told Emily about a book I had just finished reading, City of God by Sara Miles.  In the book Miles says this about Ash Wednesday, "The good news, the evangelium we go outdoors to proclaim, isn't rooted in morals; do this, then God will approve.  Nor does the good news offer a magic, protective amult; most people in the Mission, as everywhere, suffer and have their prayers go unanswered....The good news of Ash Wednesday, the blessing so many people seek so fervently, comes from acknowledging the truth;  that we are all going to die.  That these busy lives, full of eating and drinking and buying and talking on our cell phones, are going down to the dust.  That despite the lies of the culture, the fantasy that money or objects will keep us alive, we mortals are just mortal and connected to one another through that raw, fleshly act. "  And finally, "It takes the gritty physicality of ashes, the brushed touch of a hand, the racket of urban streets to make Christian faith real for me.  And it takes other people--strangers, neighbors, and friends---sharing their lives with me in the presence of death to complete the blessing."  (P. 139-141)

It hit me; we are not protected by our false sense of security that violence happens out there and to them--to the other.  Everyone's hearts and lives can be broken.  Violence lives more strongly in some areas, but none of us are immune which also means we are all responsible.  We are responsible for helping to end the violence and to understand that while randomness does occur, more often than not there are complexities beyond our understanding.  Together we must live in the tension of the complexity and together we must proclaim that God lives in the tension of the complexities.  

I entered Kroger differently yesterday; I gave a prayer of thanks for the police who are still there, for the cashiers, baggers, and managers who still show up.  And I gave a prayer for the victim and the suspect and for their families.  And I was sorry--sorry that I had not brought ashes on Ash Wednesday to this very Kroger--so that where a horrid act of violence occurred, so that in the presence of death there could be blessing.

Hearing God--Sometimes in the Voice of John Prine

I remember it like it was yesterday.  A memory I wish I didn't have-

It was the second week of July, 1993. We had just had our engagement party (I'm sure those of you who were there haven't forgotten that party--you're probably still sweating!  Record breaking heat and Mama insisted the party  remain outside). One of our to this day closest friends, Mike, had stayed to help paint and to travel with Chris to New Hampshire for another friend's wedding (an equally hot celebration). They were going to leave mid week; I was going to stay to take my comps and orals for graduate school and then join them at the wedding.  This particular afternoon, Mike and Chris went out to run and I was going to spend some more time reviewing for the exams. They left; I sat down at the table, opened my notebook and my mind went blank--completely and totally blank.  I couldn't define a single term, recognize a single theory or compare and contrast something as basic as Skinner and Piaget.  I began flipping papers the panic rising--I couldn't breathe.  Tears welled in my eyes and the voice of despair and defeat began taunting me, "You'll never pass.  Everyone will know you aren't smart enough.  You'll be a failure.  Your life plans are ruined."  I began to pace trying to escape my shaking hands, my pounding heart, and the voice.  No matter what room I went into (and there weren't many--) they followed  me.  "Escape, escape, escape. Run away now."  was  all I could think. So I fled from the house and got into my car.  As I started the engine, Chris and Mike crested the hill. I suspect as they looked through the windshield they saw the wild, caged dog look in my eyes because only Chris came to the window. Mike wisely made himself look busy spraying off with the hose pretending their wasn't an "episode" unfolding before his very eyes.   "Where are you going?" Chris calmly asked.  "I have to get out of here," I barely managed to say.  "I can't remember anything. I can't do it; I'm going to fail.  It's all over; all those classes for nothing. Now what am I going to be? What job will I ever get?"

You should probably know that at this point Chris had only known me for 11 months and so his immediate reasonable response was well, reasonable.  "Katherine, come back inside.  I'm sure it's not that bad.  Worst case you don't pass them the first time and have to take them over.  It happens to people all the time."  My head may have spun around a few times as I spewed, "I CANNOT FAIL EVER!!"  I whipped away from the curb--Chris quickly jumped out of the way (we were over 20 years younger then and quick on our feet).  I headed home to my parents house to be alone.

I came into the kitchen and headed straight for the phone (you know those things attached to the wall so that you have to remain in one place while you have conversations, no pacing allowed)  I knew I had to call my equally neurotic, over achieving, perfectionist best friend who would NEVER say anything so reasonable and stupid.  I needed Anne to talk me off the ledge, to formulate a plan as to how I was going to get through this, take the tests and pass.  I needed a color coded plan from someone who understood me.  Anne answered the phone and I burst into tears. Once I was able to speak without hyperventilating I assured her that no the engagement wasn't off, it was much worse. My well planned out life wasn't going as I had planned.  I was behind in my study schedule; I couldn't remember anything, and that man who I adore had the audacity to say it would be okay if I didn't pass the first time.  Anne listened, took a deep breath, (probably said a prayer of thanksgiving that she was in DC and I was in Georgia so I couldn't rip her head off) and said, "Katherine, call your advisor first thing in the morning.  Tell him you aren't going to take the exams this month.  Relax. You can take them in December."  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  THAT WASN'T THE PLAN!!!  I must have screamed it both inside my head as well as into the phone.  Anne calmly said, "It also wasn't in the plan for you to fall in love with Chris.  You are getting married in six months. You need to enjoy this time; go hiking--learn the words to every John Prine song ever written and recorded.  It will be fine.  You can do this.  You can't plan and control everything.  Plans change."  I don't remember the rest of the call, but I did get back into my car, popped the John Prine tape into my cassette deck, and headed back to the house.

It's been over 20 years--the world didn't stop spinning--I did take (and pass) both my comps and orals in December--two days before an over the top southern wedding--also not great timing, but irrelevant to this blog.  I spent those six months between July and December learning the words to every John Prine song and we've been singing them for all these years. And teaching them (even the inappropriate ones) to our children.  (Chris spent those six months learning not to try to be rational with me when I was completely and totally irrational--an acquired skill that has served him well over the years.) I, however, am not certain I learned everything from that experience.  I still try to plan and control and yesterday it caught up with me again.

Late yesterday afternoon I sat with Becky and talked (read sobbed) about how out of control I felt.  I told her that I was panicked and anxiety ridden about the children.  Caroline has a concussion, Christopher isn't making great choices, SK is leaving for college soon and instead of admitting to each other how we really feel we're snipping at each other and I'm over the top about everything, William is doing okay, but give it time and I'm sure something will go wrong, and Chris is traveling all the time.  Becky smiled at me and said, "What are you so afraid of?"  Those words hung in the air where they stayed for the next several hours.

Last night we had tickets to John Prine.  We went to dinner with Caroline and then headed downtown.  As we were driving downtown I was purging all my worries onto Chris (who wisely remained silent--told you he learned).  I was telling him how worried I was that life wasn't going to turn out for the children like we had planned.  I was worried they would make choices that would make life harder for them; I was worried they wouldn't take advantage of the advantages we were trying to give them.  I was worried they'd live with regrets.  When I paused Chris calmly and quietly said, "All we can do is our best and hope and pray for the best for them.  Some things are out of our control."  Those words intertwined with Becky's and they all hung in the air together--taunting me.

The concert started and I began to feel myself relax.  Chris and I held hands and sang along to every song; I felt like we were in our 20's again--listening to John Prine with our whole life ahead of us. One song ran into another until Spanish Pipedream--as I listened to the words, I froze, and tears streamed down my face The words from the song and the words hanging in the air joined together and a reality hit me.  The chorus says,
Blow up your T.V. throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try an find Jesus on your own"

Chris and I did that.  We built our home (in many places), had a lot of children, ate lots of peaches whenever we could get Georgia and South Carolina ones, and most importantly we found God--we found God in our relationship and in our lives.  We found God in our achievements and in our mistakes.  God was always and is always a part of our life--the part we planned and the parts that are surprises--and there were more of them than planned parts.  And God is good, the unplanned parts bring both challenges and blessings (yep, one of those is Caroline our beautiful surprise), but God is there. And then I heard the final chorus, 

We blew up our T.V. threw away our paper
Went to the country, built us a home
Had a lot of children, fed 'em on peaches
They all found Jesus on their own

It hit me--I can try to plan; I can try to control; I can lose sleep, lose the joy of today worrying about tomorrow, but bottom line is the children have to, just like we did, find God in their lives and they have to find their own life plan, and they have to do it on their own.  I can guide them, pray for them, but then I have to release them and trust that in their achievements and in their mistakes God is and will be there.  Their lives may not turn out as I have planned or even as they are planning.  There may be, probably will be some heart break, but there will also be many joys.  There may be u-turns, changes of plans, new routes and new challenges.  Last night I was able to let go, even for just a little while, and trust.  Today my prayer is that they will find God, they will find a best friend who recognizes the crazy in their eyes, walks away, but is still in their lives 20 years later, a best friend who tells them not what they want to hear but what they need to hear, and a life partner who will always hold their hand and sing the same songs they sang when they met.

I know they have to do it on their own--but if they want some suggestions....