When my daughter, Emma, was a little more than a year old, my wife, Becky, found a toddler music class for her. It was for ages one to three, and kids sang and played instruments in the class. It sounded great.
Of course, with Becky’s work schedule, she couldn’t take Emma. I’d have to. No worries, I thought. I imagined sitting along the wall with other parents and being entertained as we watched our kids have fun in class.
When we arrived for the first class, a tall, thin hippie teacher with long, black hair asked us to sit in a circle in the middle of the room—kids and adults. Roughly seven parents with kids sat silently in this circle. The teacher sat down on the floor with us and explained the class: We’d learn a number of songs during the session. There’d be lots of singing and dancing. And it would be us parents who needed to participate.
Say what?
The kids could participate. But it was also okay if they just sat and watched us. We’d be modeling the behavior for them. We’d show them it’s okay to sing and dance. Sometimes we would sit in a circle and sing. Sometimes we’d play instruments. Sometimes we’d dance around the room. This would help the kids feel safe to express themselves if they saw us doing it.
I’d be singing. I’d be dancing. In front of a room full of strangers.
Ho. Lee. Sh#t.
I’m Mr. Anxiety. My worst fear as a kid was presenting something in front of a class. I get nervous talking in front of people I know. And this lady wanted me to sing? (I don’t sing!) And in front of people I don’t know?!?!
She wanted me to dance? Dance! I don’t EVER dance. What I do is an anxiety-ridden stiff shuffle like I have to pee, all while trying to distract with jokey moves like finger guns and doing The Sprinkler. That’s the only dancing I do, and it’s only at weddings when my wife has finally yelled at me enough to bully me onto the dance floor. It’s less dancing and more a human rights violation and a cry for help.
What I wanted to do was stand up right there, give the teacher two middle fingers, grab my daughter’s hand, turn to the rest of the parents and say “Screw you people, I’m outta here,” and march confidently out the door.
But I sat there silently, glancing out of the corners of my eyes at the other parents, trying to mentally communicate with them, thinking, “This is crazy, right?” There was one other dad in the group. “Dude,” I thought, “you’re not really okay with this?” I was waiting for an insurrection. But no one said anything. Those cowards just sat there. As scared as we were to sing and dance, we were even more scared to protest. Or maybe it was more scared of letting our kids down.
The things we do for our kids. I was terrified. I felt sick to my stomach. But sitting next to me was my beautiful, wide-eyed bald little baby girl. This was for her. So, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stayed.
The teacher explained we were going to start by singing our welcome song. We’d go around in a circle, and instead of just introducing ourselves, we’d SING introduce ourselves. We’d sing who we are and who our kids are. And we’d do this to start every class.
A solo? A friggin solo?!?!
It was painful. As I sung my name and Emma’s name, my voice cracked from a combination of fear and lack of talent. As painful as it was to sing, it was probably equally painful for everyone else watching this grown man exuding fear and sadness while being forced to sing. It was humiliating. The only saving grace was everyone had to do it (although a couple of sickos seemed to enjoy it).
After completing the introduction, we did a series of other songs. Songs about animals and fruits. Songs about silly people. I don’t really know. It was all a blur. I was just focused on the fear. On survival. While the grown-ups sung, some parents had star pupils who would sing along. Or show some excitement. Or movement. Or something. Emma just sat stone-faced … staring … judging. There was no joy or pleasure on her face. Just a look of concern. I got it. I was concerned, too.
Maybe she was reading into my fear, but I was trying real hard to fake it. I was singing. I was dancing. I was gritting out a smile. I was trying to act silly. Nothing. C’mon, kid, show me something. You’re killing me. You’re leaving me out here alone like a fool. She’d just sit and stare.
Some songs we’d bring out silks to wave around. I’d be waving a stupid rainbow-colored silk. Emma would sit and stare at me. Some songs we’d bring out instruments like drums, rattles, and tambourines. Fun, right? She wouldn’t touch an instrument. I’d be shaking maracas, and she’d be looking at me like “What’s wrong with you?”
The worst was when we had to get up and dance. Sometimes we’d do a human train around the room. Sometimes we’d just freestyle—arms waving, silks flowing. Some kids would get up and join us. Not Em. She just sat there, looking at us like we were crazy people. For songs when we pretended that we were an animal, other kids loved to participate. Not Em. She just left me there hanging, a grown-ass man pretending to be a duck in front of a bunch of strangers, looking like an idiot flapping my elbows and quacking.
The worst part about that class? Emma loved it. While she sat like a judgemental statue in class, immediately after she would talk about it nonstop. We’d get in the car and put the songs on (they gave us CDs and songbooks). She’d sing them and I’d have to sing along with her.
Becky loved it, too. She’d encourage it. She’d enthusiastically sing along with Emma in the car or at home. Read the songbook. Learn all the words. She’d perform songs from the passenger seat, making all the animal sounds, putting the Kookaburra tune on repeat. Sure. It made sense. She wasn’t tortured and humiliated by it twice a week. She didn’t understand the emotional and psychological scars.
And, of course, when the session ended, they’d both want us to sign up again for a new session, with new songs and a new instrument to focus on. And Emma would once again sit like a statue in class, and I’d once again be the grown, zero-talent jackass who had to perform in front of strangers like a lunatic.
