a star (and a mum) is born

As I sat in the humid school hall, arms folded across my chest, I huffed annoyance. Crappy seat right at the back. It's too hot. The baby will be getting hungry. Sitting next to people I don't know. Looking around at the rapidly-filling seats, I came to the conclusion that there are two kinds of mums at these school performance things. The kind who sit and roll their eyes. And the kind who stand up and wave at their precious poppet, insisting that the child notice them in the audience. I firmly put myself in the first category.

And then it happened.

My boy, my first baby, took to the stage and performed his number with the grace of Gene Kelly and engaged the audience with his comedic expression and commitment to the dance moves. Sure, there were thirty other kids on the stage, but surely none of the audience could see them, what with the star of my child shining so brightly.

And I stood up, and waved to my precious poppet. See me! I willed.  See me watching you and thinking you are the most wonderful thing in the world!

And it got worse. I clapped, loudly. I took a photo or two. And I whooped. I was alone, in an audience of folks I don't know, and I whooped. And I may have even shed a tear.

Looks like I've switched camps.