Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Grandparents' Day
A few days ago, I promised to tell you about Grandparents' Day. In a well-conceived short story, this anecdote might foreshadow some clever troublemaking at Max's graduation, just as his classmate's father predicted last week. But thankfully, there are no tea leaves here. There's still time for Max to chart a different course before high school. I'm counting on it.
Grandparents' Day is a major event at the school. The kids rehearse their 20-minute performance for weeks in advance. To secure the best possible seats in the sanctuary, the standing-room only crowd queues up for more than half an hour waiting for the doors to open. As the kids file into the sanctuary and take their places on risers, families spring to their feet, waving and shouting from the pews. As you might expect, the kids respond in kind. So the mood is festive and a bit chaotic, and the entire spectacle is captured on dozens of video cameras by parents who stand around the perimeter of the sanctuary for the duration of the show.
Max was tremendously excited about Grandparents' Day. He was thrilled that Babee and Poppy were coming to see him, and I overheard him practicing his songs many times in the days leading up to the performance. But troubles often lurk beside the road between anticipation and achievement.
As Max walked onstage, I saw that the bandana, an integral part of each child's outfit, was missing from his neck. I didn't have to strain hard to imagine Max's protest before his teachers capitulated and left his bandana behind. After all the children made their entrance, the music director motioned for the kids to sit. All the children sat, even Max--for a moment. Then, inexplicably, he rose to this feet. After brief opening remarks, the music director motioned for the children to stand. Max, always the contrarian, took a seat. When Max finally stood to join the pack, he scooted toward the blonde on his right, put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. The girl spurned him by moving down a couple of rows. Max followed her, undeterred. Eventually he lost interest and began to wander up and down the risers. And so it went, 150 children following the music director and Max following his inner drummer.
In fairness, there was plenty that Max did right. He knew the words to every song, and he sang them with gusto. He supplied most of the correct hand gestures at the appropriate times, too. And in a venue that many children can find intimidating, Max obviously enjoyed himself, which is more than can be said for the girl who fled from the stage or the boy who stood silent and motionless for the entire show. Max just happened to embellish the scripted performance with an improvised, one-man show.
Simply put, Max was being Max. As he does at home and in class and out in the world, he was charming and amusing and frustrating and infuriating, all at the same time. I wish I could tell you that Max's behavior was visible only through my maternal lens, but I have too much evidence to the contrary. I could hear people on the pews around me remarking on Max's antics. The teacher sitting beside Max put her hands to her temples and shook her head in exasperation. And at the lovely reception following the show, I lost count of the parents and faculty who stopped me to marvel at Max's singular performance. As for me, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
Grandparents' Day is a major event at the school. The kids rehearse their 20-minute performance for weeks in advance. To secure the best possible seats in the sanctuary, the standing-room only crowd queues up for more than half an hour waiting for the doors to open. As the kids file into the sanctuary and take their places on risers, families spring to their feet, waving and shouting from the pews. As you might expect, the kids respond in kind. So the mood is festive and a bit chaotic, and the entire spectacle is captured on dozens of video cameras by parents who stand around the perimeter of the sanctuary for the duration of the show.
Max was tremendously excited about Grandparents' Day. He was thrilled that Babee and Poppy were coming to see him, and I overheard him practicing his songs many times in the days leading up to the performance. But troubles often lurk beside the road between anticipation and achievement.
As Max walked onstage, I saw that the bandana, an integral part of each child's outfit, was missing from his neck. I didn't have to strain hard to imagine Max's protest before his teachers capitulated and left his bandana behind. After all the children made their entrance, the music director motioned for the kids to sit. All the children sat, even Max--for a moment. Then, inexplicably, he rose to this feet. After brief opening remarks, the music director motioned for the children to stand. Max, always the contrarian, took a seat. When Max finally stood to join the pack, he scooted toward the blonde on his right, put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. The girl spurned him by moving down a couple of rows. Max followed her, undeterred. Eventually he lost interest and began to wander up and down the risers. And so it went, 150 children following the music director and Max following his inner drummer.
In fairness, there was plenty that Max did right. He knew the words to every song, and he sang them with gusto. He supplied most of the correct hand gestures at the appropriate times, too. And in a venue that many children can find intimidating, Max obviously enjoyed himself, which is more than can be said for the girl who fled from the stage or the boy who stood silent and motionless for the entire show. Max just happened to embellish the scripted performance with an improvised, one-man show.
Simply put, Max was being Max. As he does at home and in class and out in the world, he was charming and amusing and frustrating and infuriating, all at the same time. I wish I could tell you that Max's behavior was visible only through my maternal lens, but I have too much evidence to the contrary. I could hear people on the pews around me remarking on Max's antics. The teacher sitting beside Max put her hands to her temples and shook her head in exasperation. And at the lovely reception following the show, I lost count of the parents and faculty who stopped me to marvel at Max's singular performance. As for me, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
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