Kick, ball, change....

Happy Mother’s Day! I am currently sitting on the patio of my local Starbucks, child-free, which is the best gift ever. Unacceptable Mother’s Day gifts, for those of you who don’t know, are kitchen appliances, cleaning equipment of any kind, gift certificates to home improvement stores, or anything that can or should be used for the betterment or beautification of anything or anyone other than the mother herself.*

I feel a little guilty getting away today since poor H also needs a break, as well, after we were out last night at our daughters’ dance recital. Sweet Jesus, is there anything more painful than a suburban elementary school dance recital? I know it sounds cute and all, but let me trap you in an poorly air-conditioned auditorium for two hours, as you watch the awkward product of a year’s worth of dance lessons, set to the soundtrack of every Disney movie ever made, and tell me you don’t think those prisoners they water-boarded got off easy.

The night of the recital is one of my daughters’ favorite nights. For two kids who get terror-sweats having to tell the waitress at the diner they’ll have pancakes, they surprisingly do not mind performing in front of hundreds of parents. Do they love the stage? Do they love dance with every fiber of their being? No, it’s the costumes. Sequins, feathers, satiny spandex in blindingly bright colors – my girls are in heaven. It’s the one night a year yuppie parents, whose offspring are usually entirely outfitted by Crewcuts, let their children dress like they’re participating in the talent portion of a Kentucky Junior Miss pageant. There is enough synthetic fabric held together with fashion-grade sewing glue, a single spark and the place would be like a tap-dancing Hindenburg. The designs of the costumes are chosen to vaguely represent something in the song chosen, for example, #2’s costume was completely covered in pink fishscale sequins, as her song was “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. The fifth graders who danced to “Cruella Deville” wore red-sequined flapper dresses with black feather boas draped over their shoulders. H thought they were supposed to be Vegas showgirls.

Once you regain your eyesight, after having your retinas burned from the light bouncing off ten-thousand sequins, the dancing, of course, is the most tortuous part of the night. The dance teachers who plan this thing know what they are doing. They start you off easy with the adorable kindergarten ballet class. Everyone smiles indulgently watching them plie with their tutus hiked up under their armpits and their little girl bellies poking out. Then, once you are lulled into a sense of safety, you are smacked in the face with the awkwardness that is the fifth grade hip-hop class. You can not look away from the horror, as ten year-olds wearing striped shirts with some kind of raggedy looking vest (H asks, “Are they prisoners? Pirates?”), track pants and Kangol-esque hats try to pop and lock. It winds up looking like ten girls having simultaneous epileptic fits. You are given a break with the first grade jazz class, dressed as lions, dancing to a song from The Lion King, only to have to suffer through the third grade tap routine. Bring in Da’ Noise, Bring in the Da’ Funk, this is not.

Have you noticed a relation ship between the age of the dancers and the cringe-inducing effects of their performance? It is directly proportional after second grade. Once the baby fat is truly gone from their bodies, and they lose the, aforementioned, adorable potbellies, you are left with girls who do not know how to control their rapidly growing limbs and who look strange in child-like fairy costumes, but like JonBennet Ramsey in anything mature. And the poor chubby girls. I love they are up their rocking their shit, but if your daughter runs toward the husky, for the love of Christ, make sure her costume fits properly. How comfortable would you be in panty hose a size to small, cutting into your abdomen? But there is only so much a parent can do to prevent their child looking like a total dork, when you are not choosing the costume. As I mentioned back around Halloween, with her glasses, #1 has a distinctly The Girl from the No Rain Video look which can not be helped. And as the girls age, you can see the gap widening between the truly rhythmically blessed and the regular folk. By third grade, there are only one or two girls who can really dance in each class. You have nine girls in the hip-hop class trying , unsuccessfully, to do the arm wave, and one girl who, I swear to God, doing The Worm across the stage. She is also the girl who can do the flexed arm hang in gym.

Despite their lack of expertise, the girls sign up year after year simply because they love to dance, and that idea makes the pain of watching worth it. I am proud of my girls for getting up there and just enjoying moving their bodies whether or not they are the best dancers. We can all learn something from that. It’s been embroidered on enough throw pillows to make we want to gouge my own eyes out, but it reminds us all to dance, or live, like no one is watching. And it’s even better if you are entirely covered in sequins, feathers and synthetic fringe while doing so.

(And you are all welcome for re-posting that picture of me before my eighth grade jazz dance recital)

*Unless requested by the mother, which make you a better mother than me.