(I’m skipping out of work a little early today to go see a matinee performance of the Nutcracker with Ri-ri. So I don’t really have time for a new post. So I’m bringing back something from my now defunct blog “It’s Only Pee.” Enjoy and happy holidays.)
My daughter is literally on the edge of her seat, craning her neck as the director steps in front of the curtain to address the audience. She looks heartbreakingly cute in her special holiday dress. I’ve even dusted off my one and only suit for the occasion. The lights are dimming and the prelude has begun.
Time for a little parenting guilt.
How could this be happening? Just moments before, as we climbed the imposing steps to the Performing Arts Center hand-in-hand I was bursting with happiness and not a little self-congratulation for this early Christmas present to my girl. A day with daddy at the Austin Ballet’s Nutcracker. Come on. Who’s a great father?
Maybe a classic case of overthinking, but I’m second-guessing myself.
The ballet seemed to me the perfect solution to a problem that had been bugging me for a while. Oldest has been with me on several fishing trips, to UT football home games and other various special events. I worried that I was being unfair to Middle. Not only was there the issue of birth order, but also the fact of girlhood. I felt like she wasn’t getting the kind of personal attention that we showered on Oldest.
But now I was thinking: him to football, her to ballet – could I be providing clearer gender stereotypes? Clearly I’m now a suburban, middle-class, private sector sellout to my ponytailed, MFA days, but has the pragmatic parent role carried me too far to the right?
This has me looking around at the crowd and getting political. Certainly a pretty well-heeled bunch (You know what they get for ballet tickets? This in Central Texas, for God’s sake.). Lots of little girls in black velvet and tights with moms that looked like they could use a sandwich. I’m suddenly more proud of Middle’s cute gingham, and the fact that I didn’t go so far as a tie.
By the time the concert begins, I’m really painting with a broad brush, shifting in my seat, feeling outraged. These rich people watching these dancers. What would they say if their own child wanted to pursue a career in the arts? The audience applauds a male dancer warmly, and I’m thinking: “quick poll on gay marriage, anyone?”
Mercifully, my murky interior monologue is interrupted by Middle crawling into my lap. She loves me, but I’m no fool. She wants “Schkittelsh.” I oblige, trying not to crinkle the contraband wrapper. And I’m back to enjoying her enjoying the show.
Birth order, gender, sexual orientation, class – how the hell did all that get in the Nutcracker? If I’m this tangled and conflicted and probably hypocritical, how can I possibly impart clear and healthy values to my daughter? Perhaps the best I can hope for is to share a love of the arts, and hope that gives her a tool for sorting these things out for herself. I doubt that life will be any less complex for her.
I am sure she will want to leave at intermission, but no such thing. She settles right back into my lap and lobbies for another round of candy. So I guess there’s hope.
Next year, I’m bringing the boys.
