On With the Show

Today Lily's class put on a performance. There were three "shows," and each child appeared in one. One child, as I was told a number of times by Lily, appeared in two because "she really wanted to be the hen, and there was a hen in two of the shows." The children chose the three stories they adapted themselves. They decided which show and which role they wanted on their own. They designed and made their own costumes, the sets, the curtain, the signs on the door, the drawings in the program, and the carrot cake they served us afterward, most of which they ate themselves. These children, mind you, are 4; in fact, two of them are still only 3.

Lily played a carrot in the adaptation of Harold and the Carrot Seed, a book we own and have read many times. She has been very interested in planting and growing this year, so it didn't surprise me that this was her show, although I will confess to having been a bit perplexed by the descriptions I had been hearing of the preparations for the show at home. "Are there lines?" I asked one evening. "No, Mama," with frustration. "It's not that kind of a show." So it's a silent show? I wanted to respond but didn't.

By this morning, I knew what role each child was to play, although I couldn't get the names of the other two shows out of her. I heard drama surrounding some conflicting desires as to roles, which I understood during perhaps my favorite moment of the Harold play, when Harold's father--and then his other father--were introduced. "I hope there's a third," I whispered to the parent on my left. "This is why I live in New York."

But I am getting ahead of myself. I must confess, although it is possible this speaks volumes about my social life these days, that I had been looking forward to this performance all week. Longer. As a child who spent her formative years directing her sister and cousins in dozens of "shows," and the daughter of a mother who apparently did the same, I have been delighted by Lily's interest in what we shall call the Home Dramatic Arts. We have sat through any number of performances, ranging from harmonica concerts to tap dancing, many involving the actors from today's three shows.

Also, I have come to love this class, these children, a varied, eclectic, emotional, strong-willed, hilarious group; I knew that the shows would contain unforgettable moments both choreographed and not, and I entertained myself beforehand trying to imagine who would be overwhelmed by the attention, who would melt down from sheer anticipation, who would unexpectedly emerge as a natural. And the fact that I knew that none of this was actually predictable enhanced my own anticipation.

The best part of waiting for the show, however, over these past few weeks, was how indescribably excited Lily and her classmates were about what they were doing. I overheard snippets of conversations both in and out of school about costumes and colors, animal sounds, and rehearsals. When Lily talked about "being the carrot" it was with such manifest pride and ownership that it made my throat swell.

And when we were allowed into the classroom, I looked around the room at the eager faces, the prematurely tear-stained ones, the shining eyes and giddy hoppers, I felt not for the first or even fiftieth time how lucky we have been to have our children in this classroom, with Leo and Sharon and every parent's new hero: Lynn. The equally disparate group of parents, many of whom would never be in the same room with each other if their children were not in the class together, beamed at each other, at each other's children, felt communal pangs of sympathy and pride for each other and each other's children, and generally reveled in our good fortune at having had this year.

And the show itself! I can imagine how beautifully it had been performed in rehearsals. The bones were there; the more seasoned performers intact or quick to recover, the more reticent ones foreseen. The serious actress of a reader who did, actually, have lines, the slight, curly-haired donkey with the gentle kicks, the enthusiastic and barely reined in duck and cat, the gentle snuffles of the fierce yet somehow also demure pig, the reluctant members of the cast who did their duty, the golden sun who stepped in later and pinch-hit for a missing sheaf of wheat, Harold, who had a shining moment and stayed in sweet character throughout his show in spite of all possible distraction, my own little carrot, who rose from the ground with balletic moves and then immediately tore off her amazing, intricate costume and hurled it to the ground--it could not have been more perfect, more genuine, more moving, more memorable, and it is one of my favorite parenting memories thus far already.

I was fortunate enough to be raised by a woman, a teacher, who knew that empowering children to find themselves was infinitely more valuable than teaching them ways to be. I'm not sure I ever thought I'd be lucky enough to find a teacher like my mom for my children, but today, as I watched the transformed Harold pour imaginary water on the tightly furled seed that was my Lily, I knew that I had.