Dance Mom

I'll start this blog by saying, I was a dancer. Strike that. I AM a dancer; a lover of creative motion, jazz hands, time steps, sharp turns, plastered smiles, sequins, sparkles, ecru tights, poses, and the applause. Oh the applause.


So ... my daughter is a dancer too. A natural, but also nurtured dancer.


For the past two years, I've taken Mary to her beloved dance class every Wednesday evening. She loves her teachers. She loves the process, the routine and routines. She loves learning new moves as much as rehearsing the old ones. And she brings the rhythms, energy, and positivity home every week, dancing through the days as if life was a stage.


So when recently, she was asked to participate in an Elite Jazz Class because she had the talent and drive (at the age of five, I was suspect), I asked if she'd like to try it. Her response was an enthusiastic, proud, eager, 'Yes, mama please!'


We were in Florida when the four-session class started, so Mary arrived at a deficit on Day 2. Dressed in her ballet uniform and with pigtails in her hair, Mary looked different than the other girls who were seasoned 6 and 7 year old jazz dancers. They had a more mature wardrobe, they knew the teacher, her style, sass, and speed. All of this was new to Mary, and my stomach churned as I watched her try to keep up with the intensity.


To my surprise, she did. I could tell she was tired, no exhausted, after already doing ballet and tap for 45 minutes before this class, but she was learning and seemingly liking it.


The following week, after her normal ballet class, she excitedly lined up again for a second installment. I took the same seat right outside the classroom, next to a mom I could tell I didn't like from the start. She turned to me and told me with a smirk on her face, 'seems like there are less kids this week. Interesting.'  


I didn't know how to respond and I brushed the comment aside.


It was an atypically hot spring day and the studio was warmer than usual. I've hardly ever seen Mary break a sweat and she was. The class was loud. fast, sharp and sharp and sharp and as they lined up to practice their dance for the last fifteen minutes, I saw Mary's eyes get red. I saw her try to hold back the tears. I saw her start to quiver. It's a look, a feeling that I know all too well; that moment when you have to act professional yet all of your emotions get the best of you.


And they did. She broke and started crying, 'I want my Mommy.' I walked in and pulled her out, gave her the biggest hug I could, held her on my lap, and said, 'that's it ... let's go.'


I walked to the car and drove home feeling terrible that I had put her through that. The activity that she loved so much suddenly had become scary and worse, sad. And it killed me.
Then I couldn't stop thinking about the woman beside me. As Mary sat there crying on my lap, she didn't say a word. She didn't even offer a glimpse of comfort. Instead, she looked on at her own daughter, proud that she was still standing, quietly smirking as we walked down the stairs and out the door. One less kid. Another one bites the dust.


We went back to focusing on her normal dance class after that, preparing for the recital which she beautifully performed this past weekend in front of some of the people who love her most.
She loved every minute of it; getting her hair and make up done, waiting in the wings in the dark, the lights and louder than normal music, the moment at the end when you knew you did all the right steps, and the applause. Oh the applause. She was regaled with flowers and little presents from her Mimi, Nana and Gigi. Then Opa took everyone out for a wonderful Italian dinner. She told me last night, she wished she could do it all again. I loved hearing that.


But since that tragic dance day, a sad visual that will always be fresh in my mind, I've thought a lot about that mom sitting next to me. I was so mad at her and all that she represented, which I see far too much of anymore. Another mom is flustered, kids screaming and crying, out of control, and the group looking on smirks, thinking, thankfully, they're doing a better job, instead of consoling, trying to help, offering an encouraging word.




We all have a little Stage Mom in us. (I certainly do.) We all want our kids to succeed. But it should never be at the expense of another kid. Life's performance is a whole lot better when everyone is in sync, dancing their heart out, and being applauded in the end.
 

Lo.