Hadn’t seen her
in a while. Don’t say hello right away
because I can’t quite remember her name.
Crystal, maybe? Carol? No matter.
Turns out a first name isn’t required.
She sees me and nods. We smile
awkwardly. Crystal…or Carol is one of
those parents I have seen often over the years at the dance studio. Hadn’t seen her lately. Her oldest daughter had left dance a few
years back. Off to high school. I guess she outgrew the big bows and clickety
tap shoes. She was off to cooler
pastures.
It’s tricky business when kids hit that teen
stride. They know it all. Miraculous, really. With no life experiences to speak of, no job,
no deep relationships beyond the immediate family they keep looking to ditch at
every turn in the mall, and with barely an eighth grade education to their
names, they know everything. Parents
hold the reins, still. But exactly how
tightly to hold them is a gamble. At
best, it is all a crap shoot. Holding
too tightly can fuel rebellion far beyond what you were going to get in the
first place. Ease up too much and the
world’s temptations line right up at your front door. A new menacing Tree of Knowledge or Pandora’s
Box pops up at every corner.
So, what’s one to
do? Make it up as you go along,
sometimes. Hear an amber alert that
afternoon, your heart races, and instinct has you clamping down on those
reins. Your new teen has a moment of
nuanced maturity, your shoulders drop, your jaw unclenches, and the reins go a
bit limper in your hands.
Kids are hard to
read. But as their warlords making it up
as we go, we seem just as crazy. As
teachers and parents, we become the kids we have under our command. I threw a few toddler fits when submerged in
the age group. And these days I catch
myself throwing around some know-it-all-arrogance from time to time. I sometimes wonder who I will be when my time
amongst children comes to an end. I have
pictured myself as the quiet old man with very few needs sitting on a tree
stump at the end of The Giving Tree. Who
knows?
So my quasi dance
friend, Crystal…or Carol, is back for another stint at the dance studio with
her younger daughter. We make the
simplest of small talk and point out our kids through the glass at the
studio. Even though this is the most
gentle and mundane of small talk, she seems a little skittish. I don’t think
much of it at first. Kids make the best
of us skittish at times.
“How is your
oldest doing?” I ask. Right away her
face changes. She stammers for a second
and I realize that I have asked the question she has been dreading. She has returned to a familiar spot with a
story she will have to tell a few dozen people in small, unimportant
conversations like the one we’re having.
I’m pretty sure I am first up.
“Well, Ally has
just completed her second stint in rehab.”
She says it with a tone as if she is telling me about her daughter’s
second semester at Cornell. She is
plowing through this for sure. With just
a glance, she acknowledges my look of disbelief. “We are hoping for a better outcome this
time. And, of course, we are grateful
that she is accepting treatment.” She
says the phrase “of course” as if I am supposed to understand the ins and outs
of teenage rehab. I guess this is some
small form of deflection. If I’m not
in-the-know, just maybe I won’t flaunt my ignorance with a lot of questions.
“I’m so sorry,” I
say. And I am, but I also say it because
I literally have nothing else to say. It
is like she has dowsed me with ice water and just screamed, “Hide your
children!” into my ear. She didn’t. She spoke rather low and matter-of-factly,
and yet my ears feel to be ringing somehow.
In a few sentences she has transported me out of our world of public
television and bedtime stories, and hurled us straight into the abyss that
defines the teenage years; that time when even the most well intentioned
parents can fail and lose a child to the horrors of the waiting world.
We turn back to
the glass and watch five year olds tippy-toe across the hard wood floor in
their crisp new ballet slippers. At this
age it feels more like dress-up than dance instruction, but I know all amazing
dancers first master the art of tippy-toe before launching into the world of
high skilled dance. It’s like playing
those first scales on a plastic recorder.
In my peripheral
vision I see her hesitate as if choosing her next words carefully. I turn to face her to make it easier.
“It’s
strange. I feel like I have no business
giving anybody advice. I am the latest
in cautionary tales.” I shake my head,
but there’s some truth in what she says.
I immediately found myself sizing her up as a parent, trying to find
differences that would make me superior and my kids somehow safer. I check myself, then nod and lean in. She has clearly learned something. She is the ghost of child-rearing future back
to help us all divert danger. She looks
me earnestly in the eye. “Keep. Them.
Busy.” She pauses before moving
on. “Once those teen years really kick
in, every friend, every party, every ounce of time unaccounted for can become
your child’s one great mistake. Friends
become all important. I shouldn’t have
worried so much about abductors and worried about her friends much more. If you can keep them busy, if you can keep
them exhausted, they won’t have the free time that can lead to all kinds of
trouble.” She points adamantly into the
glass window. “Keep them dancing.” Almost on cue, cinema-style, dance class lets
out. I retrieve my dancer. I know full well that the arts offer my child
purpose, and drive, and commitment, and responsibility, and a sense of teamwork
just to name a few. The list is
long. I silently recite my new mantra, “Keep
them dancing. Keep them free from rehab.” I run through it a few times in my head. I grab my daughter’s hand. I hold it a little tighter in the parking
lot.
“Looked like a lot
of hard work in there today,” I say.
“It is,” she says
back. “My toes are worn out.” I smile and notice that she is still walking
on her tip-toes.
“What’s with the
walk?”
“Gotta practice,”
she says sincerely.
Keep them
dancing. Keep them dancing and rebounding, and putting, and singing and
strumming and any other thing that catches their passion. Just keep them busy. Keep them…to keep them.
And 5,6,7,8…
New Release from Chris Bowen
