(An edited version of this column appeared in Good Taste Magazine, Dubai, in April 2015)
A text pinged up on my phone the other day. It was from my
brother in Dublin.
“AM SO BORED,” it read. Twenty minutes later another one: “AM
HERE INSTEAD OF WATCHING RUGBY, NO JUSTICE!” Ten minutes later: “TEN YR OLD
MURDERING A SONG FROM CATS!”
These increasingly hysterical updates were the result of an
afternoon in a concert hall where his
daughter's school was performing in a musical.
He's not a heartless man, and dotes on his daughter, but
let's be honest there are times when kids' performances can be trying.
I know this intimately; with five children I've sat through
countless performances, some good, some mediocre and some so bad you want to stick pins in your eyes - or clean the oven - anything but sit there for a moment longer. It's not necessarily my own children I object
to watching (although there have been moments), after all I'm contractually obliged to clasp my hands and beam
with pride when they're on stage.
However, I do object to having to watch someone else's little Freddy spend five minutes scraping out Greensleeves on the violin - creating a sound not dissimilar to a cat giving birth – when it's clear he's only ever had two lessons, leaving you wanting to yell 'Why the violin Freddy, WHY?' before running from the auditorium with your hands over your ears.
However, I do object to having to watch someone else's little Freddy spend five minutes scraping out Greensleeves on the violin - creating a sound not dissimilar to a cat giving birth – when it's clear he's only ever had two lessons, leaving you wanting to yell 'Why the violin Freddy, WHY?' before running from the auditorium with your hands over your ears.
Two of my children were in a production of Aladdin a few
weeks ago. It wasn't bad, honestly, but at
over an epic hour and a half long, it was a hard slog.
Forty minutes into the performance my husband, who rarely
makes it to these events, was alarmed to discover we weren't even half way through. “Can't we just sneak out now and come back at the end?” he
whispered hopefully. “Don't be ridiculous!” I hissed, “even if I wanted to leave - which I do - I
couldn't, this lot would lynch us!”
Looking around at the sea of iPads and camcorders (including
one particularly enthusiastic parent who had set up a tripod) I realised I was
in an hostile environment. A sharp-faced women threw me a withering look before
turning back to watch the performance through her iPad.
I wondered briefly what these people did with all this
footage - I mean, did they watch it again, and if so, how often? - then suddenly recalled a dinner party I once attended where the host,
having cleared away the dessert dishes, herded everyone into the living room to
show us 20 minutes of her son's swimming gala. What was most bizarre about it was the
fact he didn't win anything, and since the camera was trained solely on him, we
didn't find out who did.
But I could be accused of being a pushy mum myself, albeit
unwittingly. Several years ago my daughter entered a talent show at school and
despite the fact she has the voice of an angel, insisted she wanted to do Irish dancing (even though she's only ever had one class and was asked to leave after pushing the teacher from behind - to be fair she was only three, but I was keen for her to start her dancing career).
I tried my best to talk her out of it – she has two left feet – but to no avail. To make matters worse, she refused to allow me to teach her any steps (stubborn isn't the word!) so what she was planning to do on stage was a bit of a mystery to me.
I tried my best to talk her out of it – she has two left feet – but to no avail. To make matters worse, she refused to allow me to teach her any steps (stubborn isn't the word!) so what she was planning to do on stage was a bit of a mystery to me.
On the day of the talent show I slid anonymously in to the back seat of
the auditorium, hoping it would be over soon, and quietly smiled and applauded through several dozen performances
before it was her turn.
As she approached the stage, a quick discussion ensued
between her and the pianist culminating in my being summoned to come forward to
help find a suitable piece of music.
Red-faced I was forced to make my way down to the stage and
hum an Irish reel while the pianist tried her best to repeat it on the piano.
Finally I was released to return to my seat, all eyes on me while the audience –
having been subjected to this little display of pushy-mumism – expected a performance of
Riverdance proportions.
The piano struck up the reel and my daughter, arms rigid by her
sides, thundered around on the stage like a baby elephant, feet going in all
directions, making up all the steps as she went along. The performance was both terrible and
courageous at the same time and I watched with a mixture of horror and admiration at her unflinching self-confidence.
At the final note she promptly stopped, bowed and confidently
strode off the stage to a rather confused applause. Clapping with relief that it was over I
glanced about me, certain someone was composing a text at that very moment:
“SAVE ME FROM TALENT SHOWS!” *
So what's the moral of today's diatribe? I think the word is
tolerance. If you tolerate my clod-hopping dancer I'll tolerate your
cat-murdering violinist – I'll even applaud – but if you invite me over for
dinner, please, no home videos.
*Unsurprisingly, she didn't win, or achieve a placement in the competition. Also unsurprisingly, she sang at the next talent show. And yes, she did win!
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