Marking Milestones
Our brains remember best through connections, so it’s no wonder memories of major milestones are often intertwined with memories of our passions.
My son has requested to try a week of dance camp this summer to see if he might want to take a class regularly in the fall. Of course, I am happy anytime I get to share my passion with him, but that isn’t quite what has me thinking about milestones.
Since I have several pairs of old adult ballet shoes lying around the house, I figured I’d have him try one on to get an idea of his approximate size. Imagine my surprise when I realized that they fit! My not-even-quite-10-year-old can now wear my ballet shoes with just a pull of the drawstrings and a shortening of the elastics! As I enjoy the last few weeks of my only child being in the single digits, this feels like a momentous milestone in my journey as a mother.
Sharing ballet shoes
After all, I still remember telling my dance teacher about my pregnancy before I’d made any official announcements, because recital was scheduled for just a few days before my due date.
I also remember marking the weeks based on changing challenges: at Week 25, I could feel him kick in protest during a too-bouncy allegro. By Week 30, I marveled at the roundness of my belly in my leotard and I complained when my ever-shifting center of gravity made piqués and pirouettes unbearably frustrating. At Week 38 my bellydance teacher and classmates threw me a surprise baby shower. I still smile when I remember them wondering aloud if my child would be a drummer, a dancer or both. Then of course, when it was time to meet my baby, I found Mayas and figure eights to be a great way to stretch and ease the pain of contractions.
Like many dancing moms, I also remember taking a hiatus from dancing as I lost myself in the realities of being a single parent to a baby. The barre I had bought during my pregnancy, convinced that I would jump right back into practice after my son’s birth, sat unused in the garage for some time. A few years later, when I returned to bellydance classes, my son would wave his little hand at me and tell me to have fun. I like to think I was modeling how to balance passions and responsibilities.
Later, when we moved abroad, I began attending a local West African dance class with another mom. She had three kids of her own, and we used the class as our weekly self-care moment. We would often stop for a drink or a milkshake afterward, lingering even as we knew the kids were grumbling about being left behind. When COVID hit, I gained access to several virtual dance classes, and my son would sometimes join, and sometimes simply sit on the floor and look up at me as if I were the most magical being on Earth.
In our African apartment when my son was almost eight
And now, here we are. Soon I will break out my sewing kit, cut some elastics, and sew them on, just as my dad did for me in my early years of ballet. I don’t know if my child’s love for dance (or dance class) will last as long as mine has, but I do know I cherish each milestone in my motherhood journey that has been marked by dance memories.
