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| Photo: Cheryl Mann |
Anyone who has studied ballet, or any ballet-based form
knows that some people won the genetic lottery. They were born to dance. They still have to work hard, but if they receive good
training and are passionate and smart, they will achieve enviable, textbook
lines, beautiful execution, and brilliant and sensitive artistry. They will
have a career.
Others, unfortunately, may have the same intelligence as
their more physically gifted counterparts, but are more suited to be
bricklayers, or the mascot of a hoagie restaurant.
Seriously.
Several months ago, during my spring break, I somehow
summoned the wherewithal to get to ballet class. I took with a woman – a Chicago legend -- I’ll refer to as
Madame B. Any dancer in Chicago swears by her. She has trained many in leading companies, and is
counted upon to teach company class for companies such as Ailey when they come
to town. She is a straight shooter who has no problem calling you out for not
working your ass off no matter who you are.
While adhering to strict technique, she insists that
everyone from the ABT level ballerina, to the modern dancer, to the dancer past
her prime (ahem!) works hard and works correctly.
I consider her my ballet mom. I only wonder what my career would have been like had I met
her in my teens.
Anyway, after this class I took so long ago, Madame B began
scolding a young man for his poor attendance. He had a litany of excuses – his
jobs, rehearsals, blah, blah, blah.
Then he started in on his not exemplary, yet far from
hoagie-mascot body.
“Stop it!” Madame B said. “Margot Fonteyn had no extension.
International ballet star. Ulanova
had no neck. International ballet
star.” She continued to list the
flaws of people who despite their physical attributes, made it big in ballet.
“Yes, but,” the gentleman continued.
“But, nothing!” said Madame B. “You take class like, ‘Oh, I don’t have any feet,” “Oh, I
don’t have any turn out,” “Oh, my butt sticks out,” “Oh, my legs are short,” “Oh, I am fat,” “Oh, look at my big
thighs,” “Oh, look at my short neck,” “And what about my broad shoulders?” Then you never enjoy it, and you’ve
spent the whole class worrying instead of working. What good is that?”
No different from what I was doing with motherhood, I
realized as I sat eating lunch with my chirpy, sweet little girl, feeling
unable to fully relish the moment.
Many moms wish to God they could inhabit someone else's motherhood. Be that perfect mom with a fab
house, gorgeous clothes and a hot bod.
The mom who crafts and cooks everything from scratch. One of those women
who was born to mother -- who with three kids can still cook for/run errands
for/advise a friend with new babies without breaking a sweat.
As a dancer, I had been a master of negative thinking, and
as a mom, I was repeating the mistake. My internal momologue, pardon the pun,
included some combination of the following:
- My house is a shambles.
- My clothes are style-free.
- My life is a car going 100 m.p.h. and I am hanging onto the door handle.
- My body looks like Barney’s – not the store.
- My kids eat like they’re in a carbohydrate commercial.
- I couldn’t get the kids out of the house/in bed on time with a cattle prod.
No wonder I couldn’t mother happily -- not like in a fairy
tale, with birds chirping around my head-- but merely contentedly.
I needed to be genuinely happy with what I had. My beautiful, intelligent, healthy,
happy children. My handsome and
tremendously supportive husband.
My loving home. My amazing
group of friends. My creativity. My career.
Me.
Sure, we moms could do better at certain things -
cleaning, cooking, better disciplining, organizing or even relaxing. But the heart of the issue
is acknowledging and accepting our “Mom M.O.”
Like the spitfire dancer who knows that adagio work isn’t
her forté, but knows she can make it work, the chaotic mom needs to realize she
is organized enough to get her family where they need to be. Almost Pigpen Mama needs to know her
kids have fun at home, and her house -- provided it is vermin free -- is a fun and
relaxed place. The frazzled momarina needs to stop apologizing and to have
confidence in her abilities.
And she needs to remember when thinking about that mom who
seems to have and to do it all... She may be enviably fantastic, but in dance
as in motherhood, nobody's perfect.
