August 24, 2017
We stood eagerly in front of the mirror, excitement buzzing in the air. An audience of over twenty people surrounded the five young dancers, one of whom had hired what appeared to be a professional photographer. But honestly, who could blame them? It was a monumental day for our tiny ballerinas, all just three years old, ready to showcase their first recital.
Recital. The word sparkled with promise.
I’ve never been a dancer myself, nor did I grow up clad in leotards and tights, but the energy in the room was contagious. My daughter, radiant in her fluffy cotton candy tutu, beamed with pride as she soaked in the moment.
In that instant, I too transformed into a proud dance mom. But I carried a secret that set us apart from the other families. I had been told my little ballerina might never walk or talk.
I was oblivious to the stories of the other children, and they were unaware of mine. I doubted any of the other mothers had to endure multiple interviews to ensure their child could participate or consult four specialists just to determine the right shoes. I certainly didn’t think anyone else had to carry their child out of class when they ran out of steam. But that day was not about them; it was about my girl.
I noticed the other mothers discussing preparatory ballet programs for their budding Juilliard stars, or lamenting how tiring it was to juggle ballet and piano lessons. I simply smiled and nodded. To each their own. When they whispered to their daughters about my child needing a diaper, saying, “She must be a baby still,” or hissed, “Don’t stare,” as they gestured towards her braces, I calmly explained, “It’s alright, she uses them to walk. Want to see the hearts on them?” My daughter remained blissfully unaware, and as I learned to navigate life as a mom to a child with a disability, I knew I needed to toughen up.
Then came the moment. The five mothers stood aligned in front, while our four ballerinas took their places. My breath of fresh air waved excitedly at her reflection. The teacher shot me a reassuring look as she guided my daughter into position. The music began, and my daughter’s joy exploded! My husband squeezed my hand as tears streamed down our faces. We intertwined our fingers, just as we had done when the doctor delivered her diagnosis—a rare syndrome, and a long road ahead of us. Yet here we were, witnessing her dance like never before. She bounced, she swayed, and she cheered for the others. I had never felt prouder.
Meanwhile, the other girls remained still, only shifting between their starting poses. My spirited ballerina danced to her own rhythm.
“Ugh. That child is so distracting. My Emily cannot focus.”
A surge of anger ignited within me. I turned slowly to lock eyes with the mother who had spoken, my protective instincts surging. I had become the ultimate Momma Bear. No one was going to insult my baby.
My friend tightened her grip on my hand, sensing the shift. “Not now, not during the performance,” she whispered. My husband, oblivious to the comment, looked at me quizzically, trying to understand why I seemed to transform from casual observer to fierce protector. I took a deep breath, redirecting my focus back to my daughter, who radiated happiness on stage. She cheered for the other dancers and paid attention as best she could to the teacher. As the performance closed, she took bows as if it were a grand opening night. She glowed all the way home.
After tucking her into bed, I reflected on the incident. I understood that the other mother wanted the best for her daughter, and perhaps my child had disrupted that. However, this was merely a beginner class for three-year-olds, and no one commented on the little girl in the audience who was happily picking her nose during the finale. I could let it slide; it was just one woman, and it wasn’t my job to educate her on kindness. But the disdain in her voice was undeniable, and I knew I had to stand up for my child.
If my life were a movie, “The Confrontation” would definitely make the cut. After allowing myself time to breathe and collect my thoughts, I calmly approached her. I shared my story and expressed how her comment affected me. It was a mix of painful and empowering, but I’d gladly do it again. I felt no anger toward her now; instead, I was grateful for the opportunity to advocate for my daughter.
I don’t have to rely on my fierce side to support my child, but it’s good to know it’s there. I prefer to navigate life with compassion and invite other moms to do the same. At the end of the day, we’re all just trying to protect our little ones.
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In summary, standing up for our children, especially those with special needs, is vital. As mothers, we must advocate for compassion and understanding in our communities, ensuring our kids receive the respect they deserve.