Title : My Dance Mom Game is Weak AF
link : My Dance Mom Game is Weak AF
My Dance Mom Game is Weak AF
Long ago, I declared in no uncertain terms that my worst nightmare is being pressured into “dancing” at a bar, club, or party. I put quote marks around dancing, because that’s how bad I am at dancing. Dancing is for the free, the uninhibited, and the confident. Dancing is not—I repeat, NOT—for the repressed, the neurotic, and the self-hating. In other words, dancing is not for me.But dancing is for everyone, you say cheerfully. No, no it is not.
Truly I would rather spend three hours in oral surgery under conscious sedation than fifteen minutes twirling and flipping around a stage, studio, or even the floor of a Juneau bar during Folk Fest. (Good God, especially not then).
Dancing is, however, for my 10 year-old daughter Paige, and good for her I say.
There’s a reality of parenting that I sort of always knew in theory, but failed to appreciate until recently, which is that you don’t get to pick your kids’ interests. This seems obvious, but it doesn’t really start to sink in until you watch your fantasies of retiring on the income of a future concert violinist and ice hockey/ski racing star evaporate before your eyes.
So figure skating, ukulele, and acro-dance it is. And we’re not on track for the Olympics or Carnegie Hall, let's be honest.
I don’t think that’s too unkind to say, is it? I think it’s fine to tell your kids to reach for the stars and follow their dreams, while secretly knowing all along that their perseverance is highly unlikely to overcome the terrible genes you passed along to them.
You don’t need to tell them that in so many words, of course. They’ll find out the hard way themselves soon enough.
Anyway, dance provides an outlet for Paige’s boundless physical energy and work ethic, and helps her set goals for herself. The two women that run the 140-person dance company where Paige takes lessons somehow—and with the help of volunteers who are not me for good reason—manage to organize the entire troupe into a big concert twice a year, and this weekend was the winter showcase.
I took a pretty cold dive into Dance Momming you guys. As it turns out, and not to my surprise, the only thing I’m worse at than dancing is Dance Momming, which is a thing I’d seen on TV, but did not know actually existed in real life until this weekend. But after 15 hours of Dance Momming, I felt I’d been adequately initiated.
Understand that I’m one of these people who feels clueless and lost (literally and figuratively) a lot of the time. In college: Wait, we were supposed to register for THAT class first? At the DMV: Oh wait, I’m supposed to be in this OTHER line? In law school: Wait, this isn’t a take-home exam? And then I look to someone—anyone—who knows what they’re doing to throw me a life preserver.
“Don’t worry,” whispered my friend Kate, whose daughter was in the same four minute-routine as Paige. “I was you last year.” Good, because I needed a Dance Mom Sherpa, and I made it my business to affix myself to Kate’s side like a barnacle on the hull of a ship in a storm.
Every minute I spent Dance Momming was a minute I felt like I didn’t know what was going on.
It was a persistent, vague, unsettling feeling. A feeling that I was always supposed to be somewhere I wasn’t, or doing/not doing something I was/wasn’t doing, or that I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, worst of all, that I was poised to commit a horrendous Dance Mom faux-pas that all the other Dance Moms--many of whom, by the way, looked like (but I assume were not?) every girl who was ever mean to me in high school--would secretly or openly condemn me for.
Paige proved my harshest critic.
It’s supposed to be a HIGH tight bun, "MOM! This bun is too LOW! UGGGGH!! WHY ARE YOU SO BAD AT BUNS?!?”
“OH REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEALLY BITCH!?” I wanted to scream at her little upturned nose. “WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE JONBENET FUCKING RAMSEY RIGHT NOW!?!? I BET YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO THAT IS, DO YOU!?!?!”
I wanted to scream this at her, but I didn’t of course, because (a) comparing your daughter to a murdered six-year old beauty pageant queen is deeply sick in the head, however technically apt the comparison; and (b) I knew that the stage makeup was to be applied under strict directives as to color and palette. Happily, this was one thing I didn’t have to buy and felt confident about, because I’m on a slow descent into old hag-dom and both own and know how to fill in my wrinkles with matte foundation.
I began the last evening of the performance with Kate made up like a Real Housewife of Juneau (RHOJU?) and ended it looking like an extra in an Alice Cooper video. I must say, RHOJU to Alice Cooper pretty much sums up the level of ass-whooping I got from my first foray into Dance Momming.
So figure skating, ukulele, and acro-dance it is. And we’re not on track for the Olympics or Carnegie Hall, let's be honest.
I don’t think that’s too unkind to say, is it? I think it’s fine to tell your kids to reach for the stars and follow their dreams, while secretly knowing all along that their perseverance is highly unlikely to overcome the terrible genes you passed along to them.
You don’t need to tell them that in so many words, of course. They’ll find out the hard way themselves soon enough.
Anyway, dance provides an outlet for Paige’s boundless physical energy and work ethic, and helps her set goals for herself. The two women that run the 140-person dance company where Paige takes lessons somehow—and with the help of volunteers who are not me for good reason—manage to organize the entire troupe into a big concert twice a year, and this weekend was the winter showcase.
I took a pretty cold dive into Dance Momming you guys. As it turns out, and not to my surprise, the only thing I’m worse at than dancing is Dance Momming, which is a thing I’d seen on TV, but did not know actually existed in real life until this weekend. But after 15 hours of Dance Momming, I felt I’d been adequately initiated.
Understand that I’m one of these people who feels clueless and lost (literally and figuratively) a lot of the time. In college: Wait, we were supposed to register for THAT class first? At the DMV: Oh wait, I’m supposed to be in this OTHER line? In law school: Wait, this isn’t a take-home exam? And then I look to someone—anyone—who knows what they’re doing to throw me a life preserver.
“Don’t worry,” whispered my friend Kate, whose daughter was in the same four minute-routine as Paige. “I was you last year.” Good, because I needed a Dance Mom Sherpa, and I made it my business to affix myself to Kate’s side like a barnacle on the hull of a ship in a storm.
Every minute I spent Dance Momming was a minute I felt like I didn’t know what was going on.
It was a persistent, vague, unsettling feeling. A feeling that I was always supposed to be somewhere I wasn’t, or doing/not doing something I was/wasn’t doing, or that I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, worst of all, that I was poised to commit a horrendous Dance Mom faux-pas that all the other Dance Moms--many of whom, by the way, looked like (but I assume were not?) every girl who was ever mean to me in high school--would secretly or openly condemn me for.
Paige proved my harshest critic.
It’s supposed to be a HIGH tight bun, "MOM! This bun is too LOW! UGGGGH!! WHY ARE YOU SO BAD AT BUNS?!?”
“OH REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEALLY BITCH!?” I wanted to scream at her little upturned nose. “WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE JONBENET FUCKING RAMSEY RIGHT NOW!?!? I BET YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO THAT IS, DO YOU!?!?!”
I wanted to scream this at her, but I didn’t of course, because (a) comparing your daughter to a murdered six-year old beauty pageant queen is deeply sick in the head, however technically apt the comparison; and (b) I knew that the stage makeup was to be applied under strict directives as to color and palette. Happily, this was one thing I didn’t have to buy and felt confident about, because I’m on a slow descent into old hag-dom and both own and know how to fill in my wrinkles with matte foundation.
I began the last evening of the performance with Kate made up like a Real Housewife of Juneau (RHOJU?) and ended it looking like an extra in an Alice Cooper video. I must say, RHOJU to Alice Cooper pretty much sums up the level of ass-whooping I got from my first foray into Dance Momming.
Little brother Isaac was less than impressed, which is not surprising for a gender-conforming boy who regularly complains that there are "too many girls" everywhere. You can watch his rather scathing but mercifully short review on YouTube at this link.
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