As the music teacher draws slips of paper from a green plastic bowl to determine the order of performances, my heart races. It’s the second time this month that I’ve found myself in the audience with a knot of anxiety in my stomach, watching one of my kids tackle something that terrifies me.
A whirlwind of emotions floods over me: pride, admiration, dread, and nerves. First, it was the spelling bee, then the piano recital. Two different children, but the same mother, anxious to shield them from any discomfort. I find myself biting my tongue, forcing a smile of encouragement.
My son Ethan won the class spelling bee and advanced to the school-wide competition. I let him take the lead on when to review the 450-word list, only stepping in when he asked. We talked about handling mistakes and the reality that only one person can take home the trophy. Yet, deep down, I couldn’t help but think he might win it all. I never voiced that thought, but Ethan is full of surprises.
On the day of the school-wide spelling bee, Ethan remained calm and composed. The kids practiced on stage the day before, so the environment wasn’t entirely foreign. However, as I signed in as a visitor, I felt nauseous. How could everyone else be so composed? My little boy was about to stand before hundreds of spectators!
As the rounds progressed, Ethan approached the microphone each time, standing on his tiptoes to speak. It was endearing. I barely managed to relax as the pronouncer called out: “Moxie.” I could see his face drop; he had never encountered that word before. Guilt washed over me; we hadn’t practiced that one. He spelled it, knowing he was incorrect, and then walked off the stage.
He took it like a true champion, only breaking down into tears once he returned to my arms.
Meanwhile, my eldest son, Noah, was preparing for his own performance at the piano recital. He had two songs lined up and fidgeted with excitement, tapping the notes on his leg while waiting for his turn. My focus was solely on him, and my stomach twisted in knots. I recalled my own recitals, when I would try to block out the audience, concentrating only on the keys before me.
Finally, it was Noah’s moment. He kicked off with “Deck the Halls,” stumbling on a chord but persevering into the next piece he had chosen himself: “Für Elise.” This was a real song, one he cherished.
What followed was nothing short of magical. He played flawlessly, better than I had ever heard him at home—a whirlwind of speed and grace. My heart swelled with pride.
I always thought being on stage was nerve-wracking, but watching my children perform is a whole different level of terror. All I can do is prepare them, and then they amaze me. These little beings are evolving, blossoming into individuals beyond my wildest dreams.
I try to keep my own fears and insecurities in check, hoping they can surpass me time and again without inheriting my anxieties. For now, I bring Tic Tacs and Dentyne Ice to curb my nerves as they shine.
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In summary, watching my children perform on stage fills me with a mix of pride and anxiety. They continue to grow and amaze me, while I strive to manage my own fears and support their journeys.