06 Feb And Sew It Begins…
Kate Atherton’s motherly resolve is somewhat weakened by sequins – until she sees the sparkle in her daughter’s eyes.
There were certain roles I clearly understood would be part of becoming a mother – nurse, cook, cleaner and so on…But ‘sequin sewer’ was certainly never mentioned in the job description. Had I realised what was ahead of me, I’m not entirely sure I would have contributed to the country’s population expansion.
It seems that the rose-coloured glasses have been completely shattered for those of us who were silly enough to think that a weekly dance class was just a fun type of exercise for our four-year-olds.
The fact that my daughter and the other little dance angels can hardly remember a step and find the challenge of going against the instructions more fun than keeping in step seems irrelevant when it comes to the grandiose plans in place for the end-of-term concert. (But don’t panic – the teacher is now giving the parents lessons with the ambitious hope that we’ll take up the cause at home. Somehow, she seems to ignore the fact that none of the adults can dance and thinks that, despite the fact we have two left feet, we may be able to whip our children into performance-ready shape!)
And so I sit, night after night, cursing the fact that I have to attempt to sew five metres (yep, you read correctly – five metres) of glistening bits of plastic known as sequins onto what was otherwise a perfectly lovely little dance outfit.
I also curse the fact that I have to pay a fortune to attend a concert of massive proportions (and duration) just to see my pride and joy leap around for a total of 10 minutes.
Then there’s the fact that I need a linguistics degree to attempt to decipher the complex sewing instructions for the dance costume.
As I battle with my two-year-old in an attempt to stop her from unravelling, destroying or corrupting each bit of cotton, sequin or butterfly, I wonder what on earth made anyone think that I wanted to become one of those awful stage parents: reapplying hair spray; smothering perfect skin in too much rouge, and caking on foundation that even I, as an adult, resent wearing; and struggling to squeeze another bobby pin in, to hold that fine, wispy hair in the required style.
However, just as I get ready to toss the whole thing away and demand instant retirement from the whole dance caper, I turn and watch my daughter. Her face lights up as she talks about putting on the precious dance costume as if it’s a designer outfit. She watches me in awe as I battle to turn her dress into a sparkling delight, constantly thanking me for making it so pretty. She prances around the room, pretending she’s the best dancer in the world and chattering in excitement about going on stage under the bright lights.
So now I get it. This is not about me. This is not about the fact that I hate sewing and can’t dance.
And the job I’m doing isn’t all that new either – it’s simply about doing my best to make my daughter happy. It can’t be that hard, surely.
Illustration by Jody Pratt
