Each year, public schools hold the "Reflections" contest. Must be nationwide. If you are the best of the school, you head onto District...then State...then finally compete Nationally. The basic purpose is to give students a platform to show their originality and talent. Whether through a drawing, a dance, unique sculpture, or other art.
I remember having a teacher require our participation one year. I think that I was in fifth grade. And, I think it was the only time I gave it any effort. Problem was, after working on my piece carefully and turning it in early I found a friend had copied my idea and entered hers as well. As I walked the halls where the entries were hung, I remember distinctly thinking that all chances of being picked were gone. Obviously, now one of a seeming pair, mine showed nothing original. Not if my peer's copy was five pieces down. I was frustrated and crushed. Probably got a small ribbon for effort, but left feeling that the contest was lame. Never entered again.
Well, jump ahead many years to my own girl entering the public school scene. Reflection notices came home last year from Kindergarten. With Meg oblivious of what it was, I easily threw all forms and reminders in the garbage. But, thanks to an assembly, a friend taking home a ribbon, and a teacher cornering me with words of "drawing details really is Meg's thing...next year you SHOULD let her give it a try" made tossing this year's contest notice less possible.
"Mom, Tilli did this last year. Mom, Tilli got a ribbon. Mom, I might draw better than Tilli." (Most all comments are currently in relation to this said "Tilli" around here).
So, I gave her the choice of doing something for it. Or not. No pushing parent. No living vicariously through a potential prodigy. No pressure. Here is a paper. Be sure to draw it big. Be sure to not label your name on the front.
She set to work. The idea to fill the "Diversity is..." theme: three animals that she had recently been doodling on many of her scratch papers. All have dots. But, different dots! Great concept.
Problem is: Meg visualizes just how her concept should be in her mind. But, when one line goes off the whole thing is deemed destroyed. Not perfect. Not worth keeping. Worth tears. Tears of frustration! She is the one perfectionist I'd have in each classroom. The one I swore to never raise myself.
Second paper given.
Third paper given.
Fourth paper given.
An explanation that this contest is not worth tears...and that we'd try another day.
If SHE wanted.
She did.
Ugh!
Next day.
Fifth paper given.
Sixth paper given.
By this point of tears, I was ready to throw all contest forms deep into the trash.
No lame ribbon was worth the struggle.
But, the "you-can-do-this" part of me...the "we-will-prove-just-for-you-that-you-can-complete-something-you're-happy-with" side of me came out.
What she heard from across the table:
"If this final attempt on this final paper doesn't make it to school, I don't care.
It can hang on the fridge. It can go in your room. You can choose to enter it. You can choose to toss it.
But, I want you to see that it can be done.
Let's carefully try again."
She calmed down.
She completed a scene where all three were near her standard.
(thank goodness!)
I completed the forms, after reading all the small fine print rules.
(thank goodness!)
She took it to school on the deadline day.
Smiling.
Lesson learned: She could stick with something until an attempt made her happy and proud.
Potential recognition beyond that dropped off my radar.
Weeks later a folded letter, with an official "to the parents of" sticker sealing the flap, made it home in Meg's hot little hand. Looks like her piece was selected to "go onto council" and an assembly to honor the students would take place. Parents were invited to support the cause.
So, part of my birthday afternoon was spent on a folding chair in the back of a very crowded auditorium. It was priceless to see Meg light up when she saw that I was there. I had given her only a "we'll see" as she headed out the door that morning. It was fun to sit back and see the kids' work. A slideshow raced through all the entries. Balloon attached to candybars awaited all participants. I found some joy again in this "contest."
Following the presentation, came a very rushed explanation of how all were to get their stuff from different locations. When released simultaneously, the place was a mess. I understood that Meg's piece had been moved onto the next level...but she didn't. I understood that it wouldn't be sitting on the stage steps to be taken home...but she didn't. I understood that she was to remain in the room for a group picture...but she didn't. I watched her wander towards the balloons. I slowly went her way. Not wanting to hover.
But, hover is just what I should have done. Making it to the front, I couldn't find her. Making it to the balloon table, I couldn't find her. Making it to her frantic teacher, who had already searched the classroom and halls, I couldn't find her. Oh great. Daughter lost. Obviously, she was still somewhere at school. But I didn't know which corner she might be frantic in. More tears caused from this dramatic Reflections. Great...
Ten+ minutes later, the other first-grade teacher brought a blotchy-faced Meg back into the auditorium. Poor thing. I bent down and explained just why she hadn't been able to find her picture on the stage and just where we should go to get the waiting ribbon. Hand-in-hand, I was grateful I was there.
We walked down the hall to find her class in the computer room.
The "thanks-for-participating" balloon in hand.
Should have been completely joyful.
Wouldn't describe it as that.
I'd describe it as yet another moment when a parent questions how hard to push.
Or not push.
Of wondering if it was worth it.
Of hating the chaos of an extra project.
But, also a moment of knowing.
She survived.
I supported.
If
she chooses to enter again next year, she'll know better where to pick up her balloon and/or ribbon.
Oh, the ups and downs of trying something new outside ones box.
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