Change Partners and Dance

An interesting opportunity popped up when I learned that one of our students was attending the Joffrey Intensive, a summer program in Los Angeles, learning with one of America's premiere ballet companies. It is a rare thing for a young artist to be presented with such an amazing opportunity. I thought that it would be interesting to invite her parent to share some thoughts about the artistic journey of a mother and daughter. 

Thanks to Lorraine for taking the time to share her perspective on the art of the parental dance.

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“The eyes are the windows of the soul”, so the saying goes, but when my daughter was born, this phrase offered little comfort. Birth trauma and a low apgar score gave way to immediate improvements and numerous reassurances that she was a perfectly healthy child. Looking into her eyes convinced me that the doctors simply weren’t paying close enough attention. Every parent knows that a baby’s milestones are anticipated and measured in the tiniest detail, partly to ensure that the child’s development is progressing as expected. My child, though perfectly formed on the outside, seemed to lack a certain inner spark that babies are only able to convey through eye contact, vocalizations and their own limited means of non-verbal, physical expressions.

It was difficult to make and sustain eye contact with her, to capture or engage her attention or to provoke a reaction from her. She seemed to exist in a bubble- perfectly content to be held and cuddled, but not particularly interested in discovering the world outside the two arms cradling her.
“What are you complaining about?”, a friend remarked, “You were blessed with what is known as an ‘easy baby’!” “Quit worrying!” my husband chided, “She is fine! One day, she’ll show YOU!”

But a mother’s worries are like a leaky faucet that won’t be fixed, sometimes gushing, sometimes drilling into the unconscious with a persistent drip. As beautiful as she was, that nagging worry about my “easy baby” wasn’t easily silenced. She displayed traits I’d only read about in psychology textbooks or seen in special needs children I had worked with. As she continued to gain motor control and physical strength, her apparent lack of desire for communication and engagement lingered. I was determined to break through to her myself or to figure out the kind of help we’d need for her.

Upon learning everything I could find about communication with babies and about possible special needs, I decided to try to teach her sign language. Every source agreed that it would probably take several months for her to sign back to me, and I was instructed to keep things simple but consistent, and not to get discouraged even when there was no immediate progress. Some days I thought I’d lost my mind in this obsessive quest to open the window on my child’s soul. How could I show her to sign if I couldn’t even make her look at me?

Weeks of signing the word “milk” before feedings finally gave way to her first breakthrough. The repeated opening and closing of a fist, a gesture babies develop quickly, thanks to the muscles involved in the grasping reflex, is often their first sign. Was it my imagination, or did she just ask for her milk? To my delight, more signs soon followed, so I was reassured that the light inside my daughter was definitely strong. Thrilled and relieved, we continued to exchange communication and build on more each time. Things improved as my worries became more typical, so that even my husband’s “I told you so!” didn’t bother me in the least.

Still content to be held as often as possible, she didn’t have much motivation to develop the muscles her legs and tummy needed in order to crawl, sit, stand, and toddle. I reasoned that this was a temperamental issue instead of a developmental one- she was probably a kid averse to movement and exercise. She’d give me the same trouble I gave my mother when I was more interested in the comfort of the couch than the challenge of the monkey bars. Assisted by my prodding and various baby exercise devices, my daughter would have to be encouraged to move.

One of her favorites looked like a long spring clamped to an overhead doorframe. At the end of the spring, there was a plastic framed cloth baby seat attached, so that, suspended slightly off the ground, she could flex legs, feet and toes to propel herself to a gentle bounce. When her dad first put her into it, he insisted on playing music for her. He put in a CD while she bounced, and suddenly, the familiar vacant expression I thought had vanished, reappeared as quickly as my panic. For several frightening seconds, she held herself in complete stillness, as my mind raced to conclusions about what was wrong, but then, just as suddenly, she began a deliberate, measured bouncing, and a transformed expression appeared. Incredibly, she was keeping time with the music! This episode was a glimmer of what was to come.

As she grew, her affinity for music and rhythm was at times astounding, at times exasperating, and later, she’d turn every meal into a jam session, wielding spoons, chopsticks and feet with Gene Krupa-esque fury. She’d be a drummer, or some other kind of musician, I reasoned, and did my best to serve dinner over the din. Back then, it didn’t occur to me that music and dance go together like spaghetti and meatballs, and by the time she could speak she was begging for dance lessons.

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Six years of dance lessons have led to amazing discoveries for both of us. But I am only a spectator, coming along for a ride that has taken me to many unexpected places. Now, all her milestones are measured in dance: First dance class, first pair of jazz shoes, first dance show, first original choreography performed, first ballet role, first auditions, first summer dance intensive. Since that first dance class I’ve been peering through the panes of glass that separate the dancers from the parents in the lobby. I’ve grown accustomed to looking through those windows waiting for my daughter to emerge. As I watch, I never take for granted the thrill of seeing her light up when she is allowed to express herself through dance. A pensive, energetic, creative soul is revealed, and I can’t help feeling that it was worth all the worry and the wait. I’m the first to admit my mistaken impression and give her dad credit for seeing it coming. “One day,” he said, “she’ll show YOU!” Yes, dear, she most certainly has.