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.