A few weeks ago, a friend and I were having coffee and catching up. At one point in the conversation, my friend’s face lit up and she tapped me to turn around and look at what had caught her eye. A little girl, probably 14-15 months old, was absolutely thrilled with herself. She seemed to have just realized that she could walk quickly—not quite running yet—and was trying out this new skill. She clapped her hands together, applauding her own efforts, and her wide bright eyes shone with her accomplishment. She sought out each customer, her expression asking if they too appreciated her newfound ability. Her exuberance was contagious and I found myself smiling, my cheeks scrunched up high with happiness for this little one. All of us were mirroring her gleeful delight, reflecting back to her the pure joy we saw in her tiny beaming face.
How many times as a parent had I mirrored back emotions, words, new behaviors to my little ones? Before they could speak, I would narrate their worlds with language, giving words to the expressions and behaviors I saw. As they grew and their brain cells just exploded with new words every day and novel skills almost as frequently, I beamed back my pride and astonishment at the wonder of human development, unfolding right in front of me. How much easier was it when the adoration was mutual, when the joy was shared, when the delight and amazement could be unhindered?
I still feel that fascination, that awe at what my children can do. When Z starts talking about antiderivatives as if I know exactly what they are (I don’t) and goes on and on about what he is learning in calculus, I quietly beam with a pride I have felt countless times since the day he was born. When M shows me a glass flower he blew at the glass studio, I marvel at the talent and skill and creativity he possesses. When L goes out on the mat and starts moving his body in ways I couldn’t really imagine to get out of holds, to gain control of the other wrestler, I wonder what it is that drives him to have that kind of mental stamina and strength.
But nothing gets me, nothing has me as misty-eyed, and so full up with pride as hearing my boys sing. M, in his turn-of-the-century costume, suspenders and flat cap, alone on the stage singing “Letter from the Refuge.” Z with a Boston accent, singing about his coffee shop mornings and lunch counter nights. L with his long-time friend sailing through the auditorium on a magic carpet and singing about a whole new world. So many memories of these boys at all ages, in all different characters and worlds, singing and leaving their hearts out on the stage. I know that most parents feel this level of pride in their children. I know that I see and hear their performance through a filter of unconditional love that colors my glasses particularly rosy. I have no illusions about their abilities. As I’ve said before, while I find them exceptional and unique and wonderful, I know that they are mostly ordinary kiddos. Yes, they have talent and can sing on key and beautifully. But the joy I feel in seeing them is separate from anyone else’s appraisal. It is my delight in these boys and their ability to create, sing, bring music and connection into a room, an auditorium, a theater.
As I’ve shared, L has been souring on theater lately. He is fully invested in wrestling. And I support this, of course. However much I love to see him on stage, I want more for him to find his passions, for him to lead his life. Tonight, however, he was on stage again, singing a song from Pippin, one of my favorites (admittedly, I have a lot of favorites…). It didn’t take long for my eyes to get misty, for me to have to will myself not to audibly cry. I don’t know how many more times I will see him on stage, I don’t know if this could, perhaps, be one of the last times I hear his voice fill an auditorium. I certainly didn’t realize when I saw Z’s last musical that it would be the final time I saw him on that theater stage.
I know that whatever it is my boys decide to do—whether it is something I connect to so deeply I can hardly stop from crying or something I don’t fully understand—my job is still to reflect back the joy I see in their eyes. The effort I know they have put into their task. To appreciate when they have given up so much to try something new. To acknowledge that they have pushed themselves in ways that they didn’t know they could. To delight when they find something that makes them happy, proud, satisfied. Underneath the coolness and the stand-offishness and the confusion of being a teenager, those little faces sometimes look out, seeking that mirroring, looking to see if I will reflect back their excitement, their pride, their exuberance. And while they may shrug it off, I know it means just as much now as it did then.
Oh, Philip, when you smile I am undone
My son, look at my son
Pride is not the word I'm looking for
There is so much more inside me now
Oh, Philip, you outshine the morning sun
My son
When you smile, I fall apart
And I thought I was so smart~Lin-Manuel Miranda