Tonight I witnessed real magic at the hands of my little girl.
We were finally able to see the new version of one of our favorite fairy tales. I was equally as excited to see the film, as I was to watch her face and reactions during it. It’s one of my favorite mom-privileges; unapologetic marveling at the faces of my children.
For all of her sass and spunk and fierce, she is equal parts sweet and dreamy and deep-feeling. I remember watching her face the first time Beast appears on-screen in the cartoon version; wide-eyed, and face half hidden by her tiny hands as she covered her open mouth in awe and horror. It was the same this time– so completely enthralled in the moment that she was in another world and didn’t notice me staring.
As the film ended and the credits began rolling, she jumped out of her seat and whirled around to bounce her face close to mine and beg, “Can I go dance now?!” She loves to dance, especially at the end of a good movie, so I was happily anticipating the request. I told her to say goodbye to her cousins as they all prepared to leave, and as the theater emptied, we proceeded to walk down to the open space between the screen and first row of seats. It is a perfect place for a free spirit to let go.
Watching her dance through the end credits- completely uninhibited in front of all the strangers straggling out of the theater– just free and innocent, open to and lost in the magic of the music– filled my heart to bursting and at the same time broke it a little bit. I was powerless to stop it as the tears sprang up and ran down my cheeks. They came from such a deep place of love for this sweet girl, and also a place of longing because it reminded me of that innocence so many of us lose while going about the business of growing up.
Somewhere between the child I used to be– so similar to the little girl I was now watching twirl and leap before me– and the woman and mother I am now, I’ve stopped believing in magic. I don’t know when it happened, and can’t pinpoint any special moment in time. It’s just what happens as we mature and begin stacking up harsh realities and the disappointments of everyday adult life. (It’s exactly that song from Bedknobs & Broomsticks: “The Age of Not Believing“.) We become more cynical and distrustful, and we forget that we once could take the hand of almost anyone if they were kind to us, and follow them without ever doubting they would keep us safe from harm.
That’s a kind of magic. That kind of openness and trust.
I had gently refused to join her when she asked me to come dance, too, but told her I’d be “waiting right here”. And as I saw my daughter lose herself to the wonder of music and fairy tale magic, knowing that I was there in the shadows watching over her, something became very clear: I yearned to be down there with her, but I held myself back out of fear. My own self-conscious fear of judgement and the wary gaze of strangers gripped me in that strange sickness of doubt, and stole the magic from a moment that could have been miraculous.
Had I only been brave and glanced behind me into the theater, I would have known that it was completely empty except for two people, halfway back, and I might have joined her. But if I’m completely honest, two people is all it would have taken to shame me back to my seat. I was ashamed and thought about what my own reluctance to join might unintentionally be teaching my daughter. I wanted to join her, but stayed where I was and chose to let go of that feeling and stay present in the magic that was happening right in front of me.
As the music faded, the screen went dark, and the house lights began to brighten, my magical little girl took a bow and I brushed at my wet cheeks. She came running over to me and threw her arms around my waist in total exhilaration, and I hugged her fiercely back; forgiving myself and feeling pride in just the fact that I was allowing her to spread her wings.
When we turned to leave, I saw that the two other people in the theater were a much older couple that had stayed in their seats the whole time; maybe just to watch my daughter dance. The woman stood and began hurrying towards us as I finished buttoning our coats. I was just straightening from my crouch when she reached us and leaned over to my little girl and said, “Never stop dancing. Never.”
Fresh tears filled my eyes as I smiled at the woman and walked away, hand-in-hand with my little girl. Once we were in the hall and away from other eyes, I stopped her and crouched down again and told her just how special she is and how happy she makes me. I repeated the words of that old woman to my baby, and as she looked into my eyes I saw myself again as a child, as if I were speaking to that former, magical me.
I blinked and the moment was gone, but the lesson stayed. I want to go back in time and show this moment to my childhood self in hopes that it might have sunk in. But more likely than not, I probably would just have smiled and skipped away, basking in and completely oblivious to my own magic– just as my own child did.
CeeMarieMargaret 