The Dance

Saturday was My 7 year old's Ballet recital. This is an annual event that we have been participating in since she was only three. My main purpose of her being in Ballet was to help her develop and improve of her gross motor skills. Since she was born, her fine motor skills were well ahead of her gross motor skills. Cutting with scissors came easier then skipping rope. Ballet has been a great source of confidence for her. She truly loves her Ballet experience. Her teacher says she is the best in her class and shows a great amount of discipline. I guess all that yelling at her at home, has some sort of benefit.

I'm at the Arts Center, with my daughter early, and we walk around looking at the fundraising tables. I buy her a single rose for good luck and a special present, proceeds going to charity. We go outside and take some pictures against the big Greek looking columns. I have hired a babysitter at home for the boys, so I'm feeling pretty mellow.

It's getting more crowded as people arrive. We decide to go ahead and use the restroom before a line starts to form. As we push the door open, a plume of cheap hairspray drifts into our faces. There are four girls with their moms in there. One is plastering the daughter's bun to her head, one is layering on the lip gloss and the other one is rubbing self tanner onto the kindergartner's face. My daughter finds a stall and goes in. I lean on the wall and just listen to these stage moms "prep" these pre-madonnas for their big performance. These woman are pretty pathetic. They are obviously living their dreams through their kids. I think to myself...I'm glad I'm not one of "those" parents.

Ballet recitals are special, but a Southern Ballet recital is a freakin' holiday. Southern families show up dressed up like it's Easter Sunday. High heels, hats and the smell of Old lady perfume just fills the auditorium. There are seat saving and picture taking. It's standing room only. The lights dim and the music begins.

My daughter's class is scheduled for the 18th performance. So, we sit a watch 17 other people's kids. It seems like forever. I'm getting antsy. I never did use the restroom earlier. Finally, I see her silhouette get into first position on a dark stage.

I'm excited to see her, but at the same time I'm nervous as hell. I pray she doesn't trip, slip or that her hair bun doesn't fall out. Is that a stain on her tights? She's the third from the left and the music starts. I'm at the edge of my seat watching her and secretly comparing her the the others in her class. In my mind I'm not really looking at my daughter, but looking at how much better she was then the others...oh, look that girl slipped and that one missed a cue. And just like that it was over.

My husband and I rush out behind stage to get her. We are so proud of her! She definitely was the best one up there. I secretly start thinking of colleges with good dance scholarships and her rise to stardom. We escort her back to her classroom to turn in her ballet skirt...the whole way praising and gushing all over her. We get there and she turns to me and says, "Mama, can you take me to the restroom, again?"

My heart, just skips a beat as I push open the door... I look in the mirror and think...I guess we're all one of "those" parents, at least once a year.