When I was 9 years old, there was some sort of open-house at my elementary school.
I don’t remember all of the details.
I just remember my part in the evening.
Our class put on several short skits for the parents. I was the little boy who cried wolf.
There were seven of us in my skit. Three sheep, a wolf, two townspeople, and me.
You know the story.
I was so very proud to have been chosen to be the star of our skit. I was an awesome shepherd boy. Over the course of the evening, we performed the skit perhaps 5 times, and with each repetition, I grew more confident. People laughed and clapped and came up afterwards to congratulate me on a job well done.
Someone told me I should take up acting.
A silly thing, but my heart just swelled with pride.
It was an amazing evening.
My father stood beside me and accepted the compliments with me.
His arm wrapped around my shoulder.
It was an amazing evening.
Later, he took me aside.
His face too close to mine. His hands gripped around my upper arms. His eyes sparkly and dark. His voice intense.
I had a gift. I was special. But already, he could see how I was. How I would throw away the special for a little bit of attention from strangers. These idiots who stood there and clapped their hands for me. Who laughed at me. I would throw my gifts away for them. Meanwhile, my own father would have to watch this tragedy . . . he would know that I could be more but I didn’t want to be more. I wanted to settle. It hurt him to the core that he had a daughter who would settle. He was an actor, and if I wanted to be an actor, I had to hear the truth. And the truth? An actor makes the audience believe in the scene. An actor takes the audience somewhere, makes them suspend disbelief. An actor cuts his wrists upon the stage and bleeds out before horrified eyes. I hadn’t done that . . . I was just a smart-ass little girl in a boy’s costume play-acting for fools. And that was the truth. I needed to know that. I deserved to hear the truth.
The people who had stopped to compliment me? They were too easily amused and too easily satisfied. Is that what I wanted? To be a fool’s entertainment?
Acting had to come from here . . . and he tapped me hard on the side of the head.
And here . . . and he hit my chest with the butt of his hand.
Did I understand?
Yes. Yes, I did.
I agreed that I was better than the performance I had put on that evening.
I agreed that the whole thing had been utter crap.
I agreed that I would strive to be an actor next time instead of a smart-ass little girl.
I agreed that he was brilliant.
I thanked him for his truth.
I kissed him on the cheek.
Sigh.
I was 9.
Kallan is 9.
Kallan danced in her school’s talent show last night.
A very short routine amidst dozens of other acts scheduled for the evening.
Kallan danced.
And when she was done, the audience clapped and whistled and called her name. People came up afterwards to congratulate her on a job well done. Someone asked her where she took dance lessons.
Kallan swelled with pride.
It was an amazing evening.
Kallan stood with her Daddy, his arm wrapped around her, and they accepted compliments together.
It was an amazing evening.
Later, I took Kallan aside.
I told Kallan how proud I was of her. Proud of her courage and her daring and her dancing. Proud of her loyalty to her friends. Proud of the woman she was turning out to be. I told her that it had made my heart ache to see her up there on that stage.
I reached out to touch Kallan’s face, to tap at her temple with my fingertip, “I’m proud of who you are up here.”
I settled that same hand upon her chest, “And I am proud of who you are in here as well.”
She snuggled into my arms, “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, babe. Love you very much.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Can I have a cookie?”
Snort!
I ruffled her hair, “I’ll trade a cookie for a kiss.”
And so she kissed my cheek.
It was an amazing evening.
First!
Now to go and actually read the post!
Silly you.
Nice.
Isn’t it amazing how we can remember something from our childhood and turn it around for good for our own children?!
Maj and Kallan are so very lucky to have you as their mom.
Some day I know they will realize that.
(Specially when Maj has a “mini-me” and realizes what she put you through!)
Cathy -
Over the years, the girls have acted in a variety of plays. They have participated in all sorts of school events. Talent shows, speech contests, spelling bees. All sorts of stuff.
They have tried their hands at gymnastics and dancing and piano and art.
And every time there is an event?
Every time one of my daughters presents herself and her accomplishments and makes herself vulnerable?
Every time, I remember that night (and others like it) with my father.
And every time, I try to do the opposite.
Because I know how those moments with my father have stayed with me.
Lingered.
Sigh.
These moments will linger with your daughters too…but in a whole different way.
You are a wonderful mother.
Jaime -
Oh, how I hope that is true.
Happy sighs at that thought.
You made my eyes well up. This one touched home.
Love to you.
Is this the first time you have ever commented?
Thank you for that.
Much love.
Kris
Your words were beautiful. The way you are able to heal yourself by the type of mothering you are doing is healing for me too
thanks
that is all
Amy -
I take so much joy in mothering these daughters of mine.
And there is so much healing.
Thank you.
They are lucky to have such a great mom. One who can take things and improve on it times a zillion.
They don’t even have to think about it. Their confidence and self-assuredness (That is so a word dam spell check) pours right out of them. Because of you and Mark.
Issa -
Thank you, babe.
I don’t always get it right. I don’t.
But I try. I always try.
And I am so very pleased with who my daughters are growing up to be.
Thank you.
Well sweets you can’t be perfect. That’s way boring. Plus? You have to give them things to strive for with thier kids one day. :)
I always try too. Even that? Is a huge thing.
Issa -
I know I can’t be perfect.
But I am very hard on myself when I mess it up.
Hmmph.
Hate messing up.
I have this moments of being overly aware of the contrasts between my childhood and my son’s. When I am able to give him the love and respect and stability I never had part of my heart aches for the little girl I was, but I think it heals her a little.
Kacey -
You captured my emotions exactly.
My heart aches a little at the memory of the girl who was.
But she is a little bit more healed every time I see that my daughters are not the girl I was.
Yes.
I have this moments of being overly aware of the contrasts between my childhood and my son’s. When I am able to give him the love and respect and stability I never had part of my heart aches for the little girl I was, but I think it heals her a little bit too.
Love you, double commenter.
Hee hee!
BRAVO!!
You so rule, Yes, BRAVO.
And love.
Robin -
Awww . . . thank you.
And love.
You?
Are a wonderful mother.
Your father?
I don’t want to say what I really think about your father.
But back to you.
You….are just wonderful.
Angie -
My father was many things.
He was an actor.
He was an alcoholic.
He was mentally ill.
He was my father.
I try to be me.
Only me.
He helped to make me who I am.
But I try to be only me.
I hate you. The fact that you write so beautifully. With feeling. It was lovely.
To learn from our parents mistakes is the best gift we can give our children.
Adriana -
The best gift we can give our children.
And the best gift we can give ourselves.
Thank you.
First of all when I see my husband being a dad the right way (like Mark was) it just makes me proud and pleased nd happy. Also a bit horny if I’m honest. Maybe be some genetic imperative thing: good dad deserves more children! I make! (except I am truly done now)
Also, do you read reddit? There is a thread there with tales of parents standing up for (or going into battle for) their kids. One story is from a woman who got the bad bullying teacher who eventually picked on her. The mom wrote Mr Rogers and HE wrote the teacher. Who spoke with the girl(you told mr rogers on me!) and changed her ways. I wanted to link to you but we had to leave, on Fridays we picnic for lunch and it was getting late.
I am so often struck at what a good father Mark is.
I am so lucky. So pleased with the choices I have made.
As for Reddit?
I do not know what that is!
I need a link!
Must you always make me cry woman? Damnit and I just ordered pizza. Is that what you want? Some poor pizza delivery guy with a weeping customer? Love you <3
Amy -
I do not always make you cry, silly you.
But I have my moments.
And when those moments arrive and wash over me?
That’s what flows from my fingers when I sit down to post.
Love you.
Tomorrow, I will try to be sillier.
Snort!
This story of a young Kris makes me sad. And you know what else makes me sad?
The knowledge that at the same time Kallan was receiving love and praise, some other little girl (somewhere far away or maybe even in the same auditorium) was being cruelly berated. Even if she was just as lovely and danced just as beautifully as Kallan did, that little girl was emotionally punched in the face.
All children deserve mentally stable, loving parents. It should be an inalienable right.
So why does the praise and love Kallan received make it seem like somehow she was born privileged?
Parental love should be fundamental damn it. Not a gift. Not the luck of simply being born to the right people at the right time.
One generation Kris. That’s what separates you and Kallan and your childhood from hers.
Haven -
I am always aware of that. Always.
Always aware that the child I see before me may have secrets. Secrets of cruelty and abuse and harsh words. Of failure and disappointment and pain. I am always aware.
It makes me cry far too often.
One generation is all that separates Kallan from my childhood.
And nothing separates me from my childhood.
Even after all of this time.
Nothing.
Sorry for the double post and it should be “these” not “this,” obviously. I’m high on Sudafed.
Kacey -
You are all adorable hopped up on Sudafed.
Hee hee!
You are the awesomesauciest parent.
And I am sad that for every lovely moment in your children’s lives, there is a shadow there. And while the shadow never owns or controls you, while it does not over-shadow, it is. And would that I could wave my magic wand and make it not be. But that would mean un-making your childhood, and while I would take away what pain there was, that would also un-make who you are today, and therefore un-make Kallan and Maj, and that I would never want to do. Does all this make any sense? Or should I go take that nap I’ve been really needing all day?
Hey, lovely Varda -
I have links to posts that you sent me.
I have read them, but not yet commented.
Have you ever read someone else’s words and just felt a bit too touched? Like those words reached into a place you are not quite willing to share? And so a comment is difficult because the choices you have left are to be either false and cheerful or sympathetic and distancing??
Yeah.
As for what you have shared here in this comment today?
That is my nearly constant struggle.
That reconciliation of my past with who I am today.
I would not change things in my past, because those experiences added to the woman I am.
But there is much about my past I wish had not happened as it did.
Sigh.
Hey, lovely Kris -
I totally understand about the commenting thing. It is enough to know that you have read and been touched. So I will keep sending you links to things I want you to read, and please don’t feel like I NEED you to comment (no pressure from me ever, that’s not how friends roll).
Sometimes leaving comments wrings me out, and I wish there was some way to just say to someone “I came, I read, I hear you.” that doesn’t come off as “Hitheremetoometoometoooooo!”
I seem to get far fewer comments than other bloggers with my same number of followers/readers, wonder if it’s because my posts leave people not knowing what to say. Oh, well, that’s just me and how I write, I suppose.
As for the other stuff? My own struggles with my past are not so much about what was done to me as torturing myself over really stupid choices I have made, decisions in my life that I wish I could do-over, lessons I wish I had learned sooner and in less painful ways. But once again, here I am with these two wonderful children, and it’s a package deal.
Varda -
I did not mean to suggest that I would not be commenting. As I did not mean to imply that I thought you were disappointed or had expectations. I know that you know I love your writing.
I sometimes just need time and space in which to think.
To respond.
Maybe this evening.
As for the other?
Yes . . . there is no point to regretting anything in the past. No point in wishing that my life had taken a different path. Because a different path might not have led me to this place right here.
And I am very happy right here.
Very happy.