As I sit in the audience, my heart races while a teacher draws names from a green plastic bowl to determine the performance order for the piano and violin recital. It’s the second time this month I’ve been in this position, stomach churning, watching my children tackle activities that make me feel utterly terrified.
A whirlwind of emotions fills me: pride, amazement, fear, and anxiety. First, it was the spelling bee, and now the piano recital. Two different kids, but the same mother—still wishing to shield my boys from any discomfort or pain. I find myself biting my tongue, forcing a wide smile to show support.
When Lucas won his class spelling bee and advanced to the school-wide competition, I was right there with him, ready to help. We reviewed the 450-word list only when he suggested it, and I made sure we discussed how to cope with the possibility of misspelling a word—after all, only one person can win. Yet, deep down, I dared to wonder if he might actually take home the trophy. I never voiced those thoughts, but that kid always has a way of surprising me.
On the day of the big bee, Lucas appeared calm and composed. All the contestants had practiced on stage the day before, but as I signed in as a visitor, my stomach churned. How were the other parents so relaxed? My little boy was about to stand in front of a sea of faces!
As the competition progressed, Lucas walked confidently to the microphone each round. He was the smallest participant and had to stand on his tiptoes to be heard. It was adorable, but I still felt the tension. Then came the moment when the pronouncer said: “Chimera.” Lucas’s face fell; he had never encountered that word before. Guilt washed over me—we hadn’t practiced that one. He spelled it out, knowing he was wrong, and walked offstage.
Lucas handled the disappointment like a champion, though he broke down in tears when he returned to me, sobbing into my lap.
Meanwhile, my older son, Noah, was up next for his piano performance. He bounced his knee in anticipation, tapping out the notes on his leg, clearly excited but nervous. I couldn’t relax or enjoy the other performances; my focus was solely on Noah, my stomach knotting with anxiety. I recalled my own recitals, trying to ignore the huge audience as I concentrated on the keys, never daring to look up during the applause.
Finally, it was Noah’s turn. He began with “Jingle Bells,” hitting a few wrong notes but pushing through without a pause. Then he launched into the piece he loved most—”Für Elise.” The transformation was stunning. He played with incredible speed and grace, more remarkable than I had ever heard him sound at home.
I couldn’t help but beam with pride. He had done it! I always thought that stepping onto the stage myself was terrifying, but watching my kids up there is even more nerve-racking.
All I can do is prepare them, and then I stand back in awe as they shine, growing and changing in ways I could never have imagined. I try to suppress my own fears and insecurities, wanting them to soar without dragging them down with my worries. For now, I come prepared with Tic Tacs and gum to keep my nerves in check.
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In summary, watching my children take the stage fills me with more anxiety than when I was the one performing. Yet, each moment is a testament to their growth and resilience, and I am thrilled to see them flourish.