Improv
The oak doors open and a line of toddling bodies follow the nursery staff into the sanctuary. My four-year-old daughter, Olive, unzips her boots, jogging on pantyhosed feet to the carpet in front of the contemporary worship band. Ignoring the slow, solemn words of the chorus, she spins with her hands outstretched like a scarecrow, her dress a twirling blur. Her younger brother, Bruce, cartwheels into a half-handstand, his legs thrashing in the air. I shove down the twinge of jealousy that blossoms in my chest.
The week before, after the pastor told us that she wanted us to be a church that dances, I was swaying in this same spot when I remembered that my high school boyfriend dumped me right before every winter snowball dance. I moved my cupped hands half-heartedly as I considered the explanation I had willed myself to believe: that he was a basketball star, unattainable after the stardom of scoring while rows of our peers cheered. But as I tapped one off-beat boot toward the other, I realized that I missed the more obvious explanation: Who would have wanted to dance with me?
When he plays with the kids, my husband Seth takes his cues with certainty. They are three crabs shuffling sideways, their red-silicone-pot-holder claws waving in the air. Then Olive is the dog from Blue’s Clues, her dad transforming my old composition book into Steve’s handy dandy notebook. When they ask me to think of a new rescue mission I feel as if I’m on a stage, the lights shining in my eyes. I struggle to land the yes, and… part of the performance, that moment when the audience leans forward but the comedian says yes, they can in fact perform a bluegrass opera. The kids ask me to be playful and I am a teenager again, being teased by a friend in our school’s vaulted choir room. Look at Sarah, she points, snickering at the clunky bopping I had hoped no one noticed. You can’t keep a beat to save your life.
But today at church, Olive and Bruce ignore my insecurity, depriving it of the oxygen it needs to catch a spark, the hint of judgement that makes my self-consciousness burn brighter until it engulfs me. That day, my heart beating in my ears, I leave the pew to move toward them. Holding Olive’s soft hands, I spin her in circles. I pretend that I am like them again, too caught up in my own world to be immobilized by this one. I pretend that I am whole.
About the Author
Sarah Hare is a writer living in Southern Indiana. Her work has been published in the Southeast Review, River Teeth‘s “Beautiful Things,” he Citron Review and Five Minutes. This is her second piece in Mutha Magazine. Sarah occasionally shares her thoughts on parenting and writing on Substack.
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