Or Perhaps Too Little in the Sun
Feb. 10th, 2009 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
georginasand"Simply having children does not make mothers." ~John A. Shedd
I have spoken before of the fact that true families are those with whom we have life, not necessarily blood, in common, but never really expounded on the subject. It is a vast one.
The average age of a college population is about 20.5, not including professors, so parental units are a bit hard to come by. That is not say they don't exist, you just have to look a little harder for them, and be willing to let them be when they appear.
They are the ballet teachers who, although they see you no more than three hours a week, seem to know when your midterms are (...and remind you to study), your boyfriend situations (and remind you about Valentines Day), remind you to "be careful" over the weekend (including significant eyebrow raising). I'm in a ballet class this term with those who have never taken a ballet class before, and it has been "often enjoyable and always interesting" to watch them wrap their minds around not only the technique, but the culture of a ballet class. Since I was little I had ballet teachers interested in my life. You life outside of a studio affects how they dance so they make it their business to understand both. Deanna knew what IB subject exams I had on which days, so I was not at all surprised when our ballet teacher wished Katie (names changed to protect the innocent... or not) good luck on her psychology midterm. Katie didn't remember telling her it was coming up.
They are the costumes wardrobe supervisors who inform you, that”you are allowed to swear" when the button holer won't function. (I swear, that thing was possessed), who establish a five o'clock Chocolate break, because "that is usually the time of day that you need a little chocolate." And that don't laugh at you when you sew (and press, and hang on a hanger, Gd know how) a sleeve upside down. This is more than I can say about my real mother.
They are the directors who remind you to drink water (note to self: drink water), take vitamins (note to self: take vitamins), and not, under any circumstances get sick (not to self: don't get sick), and give the necessary disapproving look when someone starts the "mother pheasant plucker" (say that ten times fast) tongue twister. They tell you that you are important and useful and ruthlessly competent, and that you're other parents, biological or theatrical, trained you well and they you do them proud.
They are the other three girls, young as you, foolish as you, and as full of it as you are, that try to be mothers to the lawless and wonderful boys that call themselves your children. Who will squeal with you when "your boys" dressed in their Mid-Winter Ball finery, remind you of your fathers. Looking equal parts dignified, mature (The Fuzzy Syrian in a suit coat puts his hands in his pockets exactly like my father), and awkward as D in a tuxedo.
I remain,
Georgie
I have spoken before of the fact that true families are those with whom we have life, not necessarily blood, in common, but never really expounded on the subject. It is a vast one.
The average age of a college population is about 20.5, not including professors, so parental units are a bit hard to come by. That is not say they don't exist, you just have to look a little harder for them, and be willing to let them be when they appear.
They are the ballet teachers who, although they see you no more than three hours a week, seem to know when your midterms are (...and remind you to study), your boyfriend situations (and remind you about Valentines Day), remind you to "be careful" over the weekend (including significant eyebrow raising). I'm in a ballet class this term with those who have never taken a ballet class before, and it has been "often enjoyable and always interesting" to watch them wrap their minds around not only the technique, but the culture of a ballet class. Since I was little I had ballet teachers interested in my life. You life outside of a studio affects how they dance so they make it their business to understand both. Deanna knew what IB subject exams I had on which days, so I was not at all surprised when our ballet teacher wished Katie (names changed to protect the innocent... or not) good luck on her psychology midterm. Katie didn't remember telling her it was coming up.
They are the costumes wardrobe supervisors who inform you, that”you are allowed to swear" when the button holer won't function. (I swear, that thing was possessed), who establish a five o'clock Chocolate break, because "that is usually the time of day that you need a little chocolate." And that don't laugh at you when you sew (and press, and hang on a hanger, Gd know how) a sleeve upside down. This is more than I can say about my real mother.
They are the directors who remind you to drink water (note to self: drink water), take vitamins (note to self: take vitamins), and not, under any circumstances get sick (not to self: don't get sick), and give the necessary disapproving look when someone starts the "mother pheasant plucker" (say that ten times fast) tongue twister. They tell you that you are important and useful and ruthlessly competent, and that you're other parents, biological or theatrical, trained you well and they you do them proud.
They are the other three girls, young as you, foolish as you, and as full of it as you are, that try to be mothers to the lawless and wonderful boys that call themselves your children. Who will squeal with you when "your boys" dressed in their Mid-Winter Ball finery, remind you of your fathers. Looking equal parts dignified, mature (The Fuzzy Syrian in a suit coat puts his hands in his pockets exactly like my father), and awkward as D in a tuxedo.
I remain,
Georgie
