The Stage Mom

I think I've become one of those moms.  In a matter of milliseconds, I went from being a proud mother watching her daughter take part in a low key ice skating competition at the local rink and in an instant, my pride turned to aggravation. As she took her place in the middle of the rink in her adorable cranberry velvet bedazzled figure skating outfit, we were poised to record one of those lasting memories from your kids' life that you never forget.   The music started - it was Michael Buble's "Everything" (not that I had anything to do with that selection...well sort of, and off she glided.)

Anyway, she was doing beautifully when all of a sudden, a loud alarm started blaring, over and over and over again.  We watched as our daughter continued to skate as best she could and she managed to finish the routine without any mistakes.  But it didn't matter because we were fighting mad.  Instead of giving her the chance to skate again without the incessant sound of a fire bell piercing her eardrums, they decided to stick with the routine she had just performed and move on to the next skater.

And here's where I became a stage mom or an ice witch if you will.  I raced off the bleachers, ran over to my daughter, who at the time seemed perfectly fine as she sat on a bench with her dad.  But then I overdid it and asked if they were going to let her get a do-over.

"Why Mommy?  My teacher said I did a great job."
To which I stupidly replied, "But that damn fire alarm was blasting the whole time during your song.  You should have gotten a do-over."

And there you have it.  At that point, my daughter burst into tears, realizing that the fire alarm could have detracted from her performance.  I tried to calm her down, but the damage had already been done.  I should have just told her she did beautifully and left it at that.  But the competitive athlete in me reared its ugly head and I just couldn't help myself.

When we moved into the lobby to check out her scores and learned she had placed second (she was only competing against one girl), my husband went to complain and pretty much ripped one of the volunteers a new one.  Oy, we truly are those kind of parents.  We grabbed her medal and left the rink thoroughly annoyed and when we arrived at the ball field to watch my son play his little league game, I announced to my girlfriend, "We were Nancy Kerrigan-ed."

The next day, my daughter's coach called and laid the guilt on real thick. She explained that the woman we laced into was simply a volunteer who had put in more than 40 hours to the competition and if we had a problem we should have directed it at her.  The only problem was, she had left the rink immediately after our daughter's performance to go to a Christening and was nowhere in sight when we blew our stack.  And so, even though we totally thought our actions were justified, I'm now feeling like a crazed parent who was ready to tear somebody's head off because my child didn't get a fair shake during her 90 seconds on the ice.  To put everything in perspective, I couldn't have been prouder of my daughter.  She performed incredibly well under pressure and the only person who acted like a child was little old me.

An original post to New York City Moms Blog.