Great Expectations

N and I were in the car the other day when she asked me to turn up the radio.

Be one of our first two hundred callers, and your child can have a chance to be on the Disney channel. Agents will be in your area this weekend...

I quickly changed the station and started talking about nothing in particular, hoping I could distract her.

"Mom, can you call that number?"

I make a mental note to disable the car radio.

We were pulling into the bank parking lot as I considered my options. I could just say no, and then end up explaining repeatedly and in great detail why I said no. Or I could try to call, knowing that it would likely be busy anyway, and that would end that.

I try to call. Busy.

A few minutes later, I try to call again. Still busy.

I think, naively, that this will be the end of it.

It's not.

Of course it's not.

N asks how we can get in touch with them.

I explain that we don't even know exactly what it was. And that, anyway, it was some kind of advertisement. And there's no guarantee we would have even done whatever it was.

"But why? Why wouldn't we have done whatever it was? I could be on the Disney Channel!"

Um, well, because whatever it is will, at some point, cost money. And it would take time. And really, because, I don't want my seven-year-old to have an agent.

"Even if it means I'd actually be on a TV show?"

Especially if it means you'd actually be on a TV show.

But I leave this part out.

She is not happy.

She is pouting. And then crying. But this isn't sobbing, attention grabbing crying. These are silent, genuine tears.

She asks me why I wouldn't want her to have an agent.

I think what an absolutely absurd conversation this is to be having with my seven-year-old.

And then I remember being eight. And going to see Annie. And spending hours laying on my bed, singing along to the tape. Wishing I could be Annie.

And I know it's not at all absurd to her.

In my mind, I tell her things about growing up too fast, and not getting to be a child, and missing out on normal childhood things.

But what I say instead is:

"You're seven. You can be in all the school plays you want. But you're not going to be on the Disney Channel anytime soon. I'm not getting you an agent".

She won't get out of the car when we get home.

I roll my eyes as I tell J why she's not coming out of the car. But then I remember Annie again, and  my heart hurts just a little.

Because that's what your heart does when your daughter is crying silent, genuine tears.

Even if she's crying because you won't get her an agent.

Eventually, she comes in and goes up to her room. After a few minutes, I wonder if she's still crying. I wonder if she'll come down for dinner. I wonder if she'll kiss me good-bye before I leave for work.

Then she dances into the kitchen, dressed as a ballerina.

She is smiling, and laughing, and asking for ice cream.

And I think, This.

This is why.

Because I will do whatever I can to keep you just like this.

For as long as I possibly can.