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Confessions of a kinda dance mom
There are five words that cause me extreme anxiety: I am a dance mom.
When I was pregnant with my daughter, visions of hair bows and tutus danced in my head.
I signed her up for her first dance class at four years old. The class was only 30 minutes long. I spent more time gathering supplies, driving to the class and putting on her shoes than she did rehearsing.
I signed her up for two classes the next year.
What I am supposed to say is, “This gave my daughter more exposure to the arts.” The truth is it gave me an entire hour to myself.
My daughter showed up for the first class wearing the outfit she wore to pre-school. I was lucky she had on matching socks. The other little girls looked like JonBenét Ramsey. They had leotards with matching leg warmers, skirts, and headbands.
One girl even had her name embroidered on a dance bag. My daughter’s shoes were in a crumpled Wal-Mart shopping bag. It felt like an “After school Special.”
We didn’t fit in.
The rehearsal for the recital was at the high school. I must have looked like a tourist in Times Square when we walked in. I didn’t know where to go or what time my daughter would go on stage.
" One girl even had her name embroidered on a dance bag. My daughter’s dance shoes were in a crumpled Wal-Mart shopping bag. "
The other moms were either psychic or read the detailed fliers sent home. They knew their group number and the performance schedule.
Several moms brought blankets, toys, picnic baskets full of healthy snacks, and clothing racks on wheels. A few of these women slept outside the dance studio for two days to get front row seats to the recital.
My daughter is not Danny, Donnie, Joey, Jordan, or Jonathan and I am not in ninth grade. So, I am not camping out for tickets.
My daughter’s costume was wrinkled. Her hair was supposed to be in a French braid.
I am not French.
There was a collective gasp when she walked through the door sporting a ponytail. I had to pay a hairdresser to fix my mistake.
When my daughter was hungry, I bought her a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips from the vending machine. I won’t be cast on a Lifetime reality show anytime soon. Nor will I end up in prison.
I got a little teary eyed when the curtain finally opened. It wasn’t because my daughter was the only one not wearing the white gloves that came with the costume. It was because it seemed like just yesterday I was screaming in agony while being wheeled down the hall of a hospital to deliver her via emergency C-section.
Now, she looked so grown up and beautiful in her overpriced costume. The dance routine was adorable. Afterward, she was smiling ear to ear. Her brothers, who complained about having to attend the recital, hugged and congratulated her. They were as proud as I was.
It turns out they actually love each other. I may be the worst dance mom ever, but I am doing something right.