It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

It's that time of year again...no. Not spring. C'mon, really? Do you really think I have time to look outside and notice the weather? Of course I don't. Because it's that time of year again. No. Not Lent. As if I have time to reflect on esoteric things and giving up meat. Not this time of year. Nope. This time of year is Dance Competition Season. It's the season where I do things like stand in front of a wall of tights, trying to distinguish between "suntan" and "caramel." It's the season where I get to yell, "beauty is pain" an awful lot, like some horrid stage mom. And it's the season where I go to the store for things like "fruit and eyelashes." Yes. It's the most wonderful time of the year, marked by performances and medals, tap dances and trophies. And it's already halfway over.

"So, how did your little dancers do?" you may ask. "Did they win? What place did they get?"

These are fair questions, because of course, I just said "competition." But to be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Dance competition placement is complex and multifaceted, and also I am bad at math and remembering things. Another mom asked me the same questions immediately after a competition, and I had no idea of the answer. And, as it turns out, I don't care. I don't care if my kids get silver, or gold, or platinum, or titanium, or whatever. I'm excited for them when they get first place and whatnot, but for me, the answer to "how did they do," has nothing to do with scores and trophies. It turns out that sources of my pride lie elsewhere.

This year, these are the things I was proud of:

1) The Dictator has started making deliberately funny faces. I think funny faces are entertaining. Not raunchy faces, mind you. Raunchy faces are terrifying, and bad raunchy faces--where the girls open and close their mouths so many times it looks like they are chewing sandwiches instead of smiling--are the worst. But funny faces are great in funny dances. And this year the Dictator had a funny dance. And she hammed it up. It was delightful. Let's just hope she knows to tone it down for her ballet dances.

The Anarchist nailed her pivot turns, because
it turns out that practicing is a useful thing.

2) The Anarchist (sort of) learned to do pivot turns. Prior to this year, the Anarchist had taken two years off of dance because "they keep the big doors open in the summer and it gets too hot." I suppose that's as valid a reason as any when you're five. Anyway, she missed a few fundamental building blocks as a result. Like shifting her weight. And going the same direction as everyone else. There was an entire section of her jazz dance (the pivot turn section) in which she kind of just spun aimlessly, like a dog chasing its tail. So one day, she asked me if she had danced perfectly. I had so wanted to say "yes, you are a flawless miracle," because I am totally that mom. Luckily, I had just read somewhere that this kind of affirming behavior would turn the Anarchist into a raving, unlovable narcissist forever. So instead, I said, "It's getting closer to perfect. Would you like me to help you work on pivot turns so that you can get even closer?" And not only did that kid say "yes," but she asked to practice every single day until the competition. And lo and behold, the child pivoted the right way, every single time. I almost fell over. Who knew that my honesty and her hard work would pay off (probably everybody, that's who)!

3) The Bureaucrat does not yell "Work it baby!" and "Give it to 'em hard!" to his little girls during their dances. Not that I expected him to (if he did, I feel like that would be valid grounds for divorce), but apparently doing this is a thing. A horrifying, horrifying thing. Yes. There are fathers who yell these things at their young daughters, sometimes while their daughters are doing ballet. These fathers also blow whistles and clang cowbells during artistic performances. So, kudos to the Bureaucrat, I guess, for not yelling stripper things at his babies and for not behaving as if he were in an arena, rather than an auditorium. 

4) The dance studio kept the focus on the children treating each other well and learning something. I love this thing. This is the reason my children dance where they do. Because I like kind people (the other type of people are scary) and I want my kids to learn. Winning is nice, and they do that a lot, too. But kindness and learning are the best. They are, like, my favorite things. Yay, dance studio!

Anarchist and Dictator after a day of learning
and (hopefully) being kind.

5) The Anarchist has found something she loves. The child loves to dance. She is ecstatic when she comes off stage. She asks for more dances. She hates breaks between classes because she would rather be dancing. I am excited for her, because that's what it's all about, after all.

6) The Dictator has learned to take, and apply criticism. "What was your favorite part of what I did?" she'll ask. But she'll also ask, "What part can I work on?" And then she will practice. This is brand new. The Dictator used to think that she was perfect. She used to refuse to work. This development is so exciting. It means she will grow into a functional adult. It also means that she will do her darndest to keep her hands on her hips during her tap dance. Hooray!

7) All the kids were troopers. They were very sick troopers. At the last competition, most of them had what we have affectionately dubbed "The Dance Studio Plague." The dressing room was a scene of absolute misery. The Anarchist came down with a fever right before she was supposed to go onstage. All of the poor wretched children were dropping like flies. Except they didn't drop. They got on stage, smiled giant, sparkling smiles, and danced their hearts out. There's no way I would have done that. If it had been me, I would have collapsed dramatically on the floor and moaned loudly. The Anarchist did that, but then she also did the smiley stage thing. It was so amazing. They are all much stronger people than I will ever be.

The Anarchist was a
very dramatic trooper.

8) Speaking of me, let's discuss how I didn't forget anything. Not a thing. We had all the tights, all the shoes, all the pins, all the eyelashes, all of the sparkly costume pieces. Everything. I'm very impressive. I'm very proud of myself. I want a titanium medal, or whatever.

So yeah. The kids got some trophies and medals and things. There were ribbons and awards. We clapped and cheered. But I wasn't clapping for the medals and trophies. I was clapping for my kids. I was clapping for who they're becoming: hardworking, disciplined, thoughtful, considerate, passionate, delightful, growing, maturing people. And of course, I was clapping for myself, too. Because, honestly, what greater accomplishment is there than to remember to pack all of the things? None. Absolutely none.*

The Dictator with some medals, or whatever.
The real accomplishment here is that she has
the correct hair piece, and  both fake eyelashes.
I am the best dance mom in the universe.

*Wait. There is one greater accomplishment. The Bureaucrat somehow just inherently knows that it isn't okay to say "shake it" and "bring it home to daddy" to his offspring. I feel like that's huge. But I'm going to go ahead and refrain from calling him a flawless miracle. Because I wouldn't want him to become a narcissist.

Poor-ish-ness (In which I talk about money like some tacky, uncouth beggar)

"Ugh. I HATE being poor!" moans the Anarchist on the way home from dance. According to her, we are the only family who cannot afford to purchase the totally optional sparkly rhinestoned t-shirts with the studio logo, and she's feeling left out.*

 "Why do we always have to be so poor? We are the poor ones every time!"

I take a deep breath. I know the feeling. I pretty much constantly have that feeling. I am forever the only mom saying "no" to simple things because we can't afford them. Every once in a while is no big deal. But every single time is a bit taxing. But I also know that, in reality, it's all about context. So then I say a thing that makes me feel like Supermom.

The Anarchist with her (only!) two American Girl
dolls.  Note the third doll is a relic from my
privileged childhood. Note that it is dressed in rags.
You can go ahead and blame my desire to analyze
Hindu ritual for that one.

"Anarchist, we aren't poor at all. No, really, we aren't. We have food to eat every single day. We have a house that has running water and electricity. You can take dance classes, get birthday presents, go out for Slurpees sometimes, have lots of clothes to choose from every morning, and can have an allowance. It's just that we spend time around people who have a lot more money than we do. So it seems sometimes like we are poor. But we aren't. If we were poor, we wouldn't have all the thing I just talked about. So even if we can't go on lots of fancy vacations or have sparkly t-shirts every time they are available, it doesn't mean we are poor. We just have to be careful about how we spend money. But we should really try to appreciate all of the things we do have without worrying about other people having more."

This is hard for her. The Anarchist is all about fairness. Fairness is her thing. But I just said a Supermom thing, and Supermom things are hard to dispute. I glow for a few minutes as a result.

But here is the problem. This is hard for me, too. And so really, after glowing, I go into a terrible downward spiral of self-loathing, envy, and shame. I feel inadequate because I can't provide Disney cruises and sparkly things for my children. I feel terrible because they have maxed out at two American Girl dolls apiece, and those were the result of a large group effort on the part of our families. I avoid carpools because our cars are falling apart and rickety. I become enraged when they need school supplies or field trip money on short notice because sometimes I simply cannot give it.

And I feel like I have exactly no excuse for this. I had potential. I was a smart kid who did well in school. I came from a middle class family and I went to college. Theoretically, I should have a nice house in the suburbs, a stable career where I sit at a desk all day and drink coffee, a leased family vehicle that doesn't have chunks of metal falling off the side, and the ability to pay for extracurricular activities without driving myself into bankruptcy. But I don't. I was an English major. It seemed really cute and intellectually rebellious at the time. I was a very smug and proud-of-myself 19 year old. And now my poor kids are paying for it

This afternoon I tried to explain to the Anarchist that she couldn't have her allowance money until Friday because it simply wouldn't exist until Friday. I owe her $5, but until I get my paycheck, it's not happening. She was enraged. "Well, then GET the money!" she said. She sounded like a seedy landlord, or maybe some sort of mobster. I didn't blame her. After all, she's being denied what was promised to her because Mommy just had to spend that semester really enjoying the heck out of Poststructuralism.

And then I feel guilty for feeling like it's hard. "For Pete's sake, you greedy jerk!" I'll tell myself, "You're worried about money for dance competitions like the world is ending, and there are people who are literally starving! You are for real the worst person I can think of!"

This is probably true. But for whatever reason, saying it doesn't help.

I've tried surrounding myself with other poor-ish people like myself. Friends who had kids early, bought houses at the wrong time, ran up credit cards trying to scrape by, and entered the career markets with the wrong degrees in the wrong year, like we did. These friends help me to feel not as alone. But for some reason, I am even more depressed when I leave them. This is probably because our conversations lead to the inevitable conclusion that there is no hope. We will all be working full time, and we will all be doing worse than our parents. If our kids have nice childhoods, they will not be able to go to college. If we save any amount of money for college, they will be miserable and deprived for the 18 years leading up to college. And then they will probably want to go to college and spend four years reading Edith Wharton and not making money...because that's probably genetic.

So what is a not-at-all poor, but relatively poor-ish mom to do? How do I explain to my kids that we have more than plenty, while simultaneously denying them 90% of what their friends have? The Bureaucrat suggests moving far, far away from the yuppieland in which we reside. That, or winning the lottery. I'm more a fan of viewing Living Simply as a spiritual practice, and then failing to view
it as a spiritual practice, and then becoming depressed because I suck at being all austere and whatnot, and then spending money I don't have to buy bagels and donuts and entire loaves of cheese bread to ease the pain of my depression. That method has been my go-to for the past several years. Why stop now?

And really, I just need to suck it up. Like I told the Anarchist, we are not poor. We are just not wealthy. We are not suffering. We just don't have the ability to take multiple vacations per year. I mean really, I'm just an entitled Millenial who's disappointed that being my own, unique, individual, Jane Austen-loving snowflake didn't lead to fame and fortune.** And I need to get over it. And so do my kids.

In the meantime, I think that the Bureaucrat might be on to something with this lottery nonsense. After all, there's a high probability of winning, right? And I know a lot about probability because I spent a lot of time studying statistics in college.

Oh. Wait. Nope. Nope.

I spent a lot of time studying the negative theology of female mystic poets across religious traditions.

Of course I did.

Better go buy those lottery tickets.

* I am well aware of how super-tacky it supposedly is to talk about money in polite company. But I feel like this is a rule that rich people made up so that they wouldn't have to hear me whine. Plus, this is not "polite company." This is a blog. I'm not wearing pearls, or readily distinguishing between a salad fork and a dessert fork, or anything. So I think we're cool.

** Speaking of Jane Austen, I think that a more apt description than "entitled Millenial" might be "that character from a Jane Austen novel who complains about being the poor relation, but really only has a few fancy Edwardian dresses instead of many, and needs to stop whining, because at least she's not the scullery maid!" I like that better.