Hit the Road, Jack

Emma sang at the school talent show. Little tiny Emma, she doesn't look so tiny until she's up on the stage in front of 300 people, with that huge 5th grader.

She sang well, she sang black, she channeled the spirit of Ray Charles. She's only 7. She cried at home beforehand, because she didn't like her dress. I assured her that dressy is the way to go when you're 7, and you're singing a nightclub song.

She told me afterwards, at night, in bed, that she wasn't sure she liked doing it. "Medium," she said, about the experience. She was scared to be up in front of all those people. It took some of the fun away. Next year, she said, I'd rather dance, or do gymnastics.

Watching the videotape of the show, you can see how tiny she is. She has these bold ideas, she's nurturing her indignant side, having to fight her way past her bigger brother all the time while he skates always slightly ahead of her, with the priority that comes with the year and a half advantage in his age. She likes all the songs and dances in her talent show as much as her own. She learns all the dance moves, all the words to the other songs. She doesn't discriminate, or bother to judge. She loves everything. She's clean, and lovely that way.

Watching that tape, she already looks smaller then, like the show happened years ago instead of just a few days. I can see dramatic moments in her life being whittled, happening right NOW, I'm here seeing it all and supposedly guiding her along the way, and the immensity of the mom job baffles me. Is this important? Is she okay? Are we doing the right things with her? The epic nature of motherhood, and loving your baby, and feeling responsible. It's mindbending.

I see other moms, feeling everything with their kids. I think, wow, she should let him go, he's going to be fine, he's his own person. But with my kids? No way. Shut up. I'm hanging on.