It kills me how my heart breaks for my kids sometimes. The other day Mia auditioned for a new theatre group. I had a gut feeling that she wasn’t “flashy” enough for this gang, but we gave it a try in any case. And while I watched her audition in the studio, I thought she did quite a good job. At the end she ran back to ask the director if there would be costumes in the showcases. And as we walked to the car, she said with gleaming eyes, that she was sure she’d get in. And then in a moment of horror, clutched my arm with the idea that she wouldn’t. And at about 11pm last night, I got an email thanking Mia for auditioning but saying that she didn’t get in. Now I don’t care that she’s not going to join this group, and I don’t care which group she joins, but the idea of telling my little girl that she didn’t get in just broke my heart. I fretted about it all night, and since I was leaving for a trip at 4am, gave Darian explicit instructions on how to break the news to her (we didn’t want it to drag on over the weekend) and now, sitting on a plane while I write this, I can’t wait to land so I can see if she’s ok.
I’ve had friends with terribly sick kids. Kids who haven’t made it. Who have had to endure the most awful procedures and unbelievable hardships. And I can’t for one minute imagine the stress. If I am concerned because my daughter didn’t get into a silly theatre group, I can’t even begin to understand their anguish. But that doesn’t make me love my daughter any less. And so, when even the smallest thing happens to one of my kids: Milan scrapes his knee, Max gets his feelings hurt (hourly), it makes my heart ache. Because I don’t want them to experience any pain, in any way.
Mia will find a theatre group that suits her. And the experience of not getting into this one will be valuable. For me and her. But in the meantime, I’m going to imagine wrapping her up in cotton wool and bubble wrap and holding her very, very carefully so no harm should ever come to her. Ok?