The First Recital

I survived my first recital! Actually, my CHILDREN'S first recital. My own first dance recital I botched, by doing the stiff-arm doll-turn to the left, instead of the right, and mixing up 1^st position with 2^nd. It was a nightmare, and I've never quite gotten over it.

But MUSICAL recitals are way different. You know, except for the performance part. And the audience. And the queasy feeling.

Reliving the recital scene from a maternal point of view was,  as it turns out, WAY easier than standing in the spotlight. That is to say, I didn't urinate on anything.

I was bound and determined to break the family life cycle of bad recital joo-joo at all cost to myself.

According to experts, recitals are a marvelous way for kids and parents to come together and experience their collective hard work in a celebratory exhibition. In reality, they are stress-fests, though my kids will never hear it from me (deny, deny, deny!)

Recital stress comes in three flavors. I should mention that these stresses apply to both the student and the parent. They are: Mastery, Anticipation, and Performance. Successfully negotiating this triple whammy builds life skills. Character, some say. Intestinal fortitude, more likely.

The point of a child's *first recital is to have a "positive recital experience". A distant second priority: to actually play the selection with as few glaring errors as possible. By way of evidence, I maintain that every single participant, regardless of race, creed, color, or *talent, will get cookies and punch afterward, and be lauded by parents and teachers alike. Those American Idol judges can crush their spirit later, but it won't be done here.

Mastery stress: the torture of practice. I'm not just referring to actual practicing - I refer also to the HEARING of the practicing, which by my own estimation, has GOT to hurt just as much. I'm just saying.

Choosing a recital piece is a very personal thing. I was all for letting my children express themselves according to their true heart's desire, as long as it didn't involve the song "Tiny Bubbles" or anything Britney.  That said, I think it's best not to choose a piece of music you particularly LIKE. This might seem illogical on the surface, but I'm telling you, you'll never want to hear it again as long as you live.

Of course, while a good test of endurance, the emotional strain of practice in no way rivals the mental stress of:

Anticipation: the period of suppressed appetite between the moment of mastery, and the moment the finger hits the key. On stage. In uncomfortable clothes. With 100 people watching.

I took the sickeningly upbeat strategy (Isn't this going to be FUN?!!?) My husband held up his end of the parenting support gurney by not directly contradicting any of my manic encouraging words, or indicating in any way that I had gone mad.

Theory: If you pretend it's fun, they will enjoy it. Reality: Kids don't believe in theories.

Abby got suspicious about the 700^th time I mentioned how incredibly colossally FUN it was going to be ("Gimme an !! F !!, Gimme a !! U !!…").

Nothing gets by this one. On the big day, she picked up on the fact that I too-quickly accepted her clothing veto and approved her alternative bag-lady choice. Completely out of character for me, despite the fact that "Bag Lady" is a pretty good look for her.

She looked at me sideways, and confessed she was "nervous."

I don't even know where she learned that word. Schools these days! They're way too interested in vocabulary. What ever happened to focusing on the classroom PET until 6^th grade? Next thing you know, they'll be teaching them how to tell time, and we'll be forced to change all the clocks in the house if we want to get them into bed early. It's just a whole lot of extra work for me, the way I see it. But I digress.

Anyway, I did some quick maneuvering, which probably included repeating the word "FUN" about 60 more times, and driving fast. It's all a blur.

Upon stepping through the doors, I was immediately and miraculously separated from my clinging children. All students were whisked off to their assigned seats (in recital order!) and Max discovered to his, um, keen interest (terror) that he was FIRST. On top of that, had no Mom around to go over the POSITIVE aspects of such a placement. ("What FUN !!!!")

Performance Stress.
Everyone handles this differently.

Some speed through their music. Some stumble along. A few whimper, and walk offstage. One hid behind the piano. Not the best strategy, but you can see how it might have made sense at the time.

Parents hide behind cameras.

In the end, my kids performed well, though they bowed with significantly more enthusiasm than they had approached the ivories. Abby played the somber and dignified dirge: "Pop Goes the Weasel!" and Max a bumblebee version of Bach's Minuet in G Major. I was so proud!

They ate their celebratory ice cream in a parental glow of admiration completely unconnected to the strength of their performances - but more in the strength of their grace and fortitude under triple pressure. In spite of me.