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.

How To Be The Bestest Dance Mom EVER

By now, you've all at least heard of the TV reality show about dance moms, with its horrifically insulting teacher and its pushy, emotional dance moms. If you have little dancers at home, you might have also noticed the dance world's response to this portrayal of dance studios, dancers, and their parents. "Real dance moms aren't anything like that!" insist the rest of us. This horrible show is giving real, supportive, nurturing parents who happen to be raising little dancers a bad name.

"Oh, Mom! You're so
calm and stress-free!"
says the Dictator, never.

As someone who has just emerged from almost a week surrounded by exclusively dance moms, I can promise you that this is true. The vast majority of dance moms are kind, mature, supportive, friendly, helpful, and not too aggressively obsessed with their sons' or daughters' dance skills, scores, or status. But, as someone who has just emerged from almost a week surrounded by exclusively dance moms, I can also promise you that a tiny, little, minuscule bit of icky, bad, nasty dance mom probably exists somewhere in the darkest, most shadowy recesses of most of us, just waiting to claw its unwelcome self out at our most vulnerable, stress-filled moments.* These are the moments when we can point to the exploitative reality show and say, with great relief, "Well, at least I'm not as bad as those dance moms."

Nevertheless, most of us would prefer that this ugly dance-mom demon never once rears its ugly head. The trick, of course is to remain invulnerable and utterly stress-free. Which, of course, is like, the easiest thing in the world for yours truly. Having achieved a constant Zen-like state of meditative calm, and a transcendent selflessness that allows me to feel nothing but good thoughts for all of humanity, pretty much all of the time, especially in traffic, I am clearly the one to provide sage wisdom to all other dance moms. Especially when you consider my whopping three whole years of navigating the competitive dance world. Yeah. I'm your guy. Prepare to be blown away, people. I am here to de-Dance Mom-ify you us. You're welcome.*

1) Be kind to everyone. The dance moms on TV are really only nice to each other when they want something. Which isn't very nice at all. When we spend so much time with the same people under stressful conditions, sometimes the stressed-out unkindness wants to slip out, whether it be to the little hooligan who just body-slammed your precious ballerina, the other dance mom who wants to remind you about how fantastic her child is, or the teacher who doesn't seem to be giving your kid adequate attention. But I've found I regret about 99% of the unkindness that I have ever let slip. Because little hooligan body-slammer might very well have been provoked by precious ballerina, other braggy dance mom is probably just relieved, proud, and excited (which is wonderful, right?), and how the heck do I know how much attention my kid is/isn't getting (unless I'm peering sideways through the slats of the blinds on the dance room, which I'm totally not...I swear)? Plus, if there's one thing this world needs more of, it's kindness. And also narwhals. The world needs more of those, too.

The Bureaucrat:
an awe-inspiring dance dad.

2) Be like the dance dads. There are so many amazing dance dads out there. We have one at our studio who keeps bobby pins in his wallet. I can only aspire to be like him. The best thing about dance dads (besides their awe-inspiring dads' dances) is that they are always there when their kids need them, and completely out of the way when they don't. They don't hover, fuss, worry, stress, complain, push, give helpful dance advice, direct the teachers, or take things personally. Now hovering, fussing, worrying, stressing, and the like are inherent to who we moms are. We can't help it. We just care so much. But maybe we can tone it down a bit. Because if there's one piece of advice that my darling Dictator gave me over the weekend that I can share with you all it's, "Mo-om! I know! Just go away!"

"Great, Dictator! Now hold your head up.
Realign those hips. Pull that leg up. Smile!
No! Don't roll your eyes...how am I going to
get an impressive picture if you're rolling your
eyes? NO! Don't walk away in a huff!
I'm not done yet! I need to post this picture
on social media to get a thousand likes and
boost my self-esteem! Dictator! Come back!"

3) It's not about you. It's about them. We dance moms love to say this, "It's not about us. It's about them. We're here for the kids." But let's be realistic, it's at least a little bit about us. We mostly say this to make it true through the saying of it, like a mantra. We so badly want it to be true, but if we are being realistic, we are spending bajillions of dollars on dance/costumes/competitions/make-up/shoes. This is an investment. And we want it to be worth it. It's not unfair that we have some personal stake in how hard our kids work, how much fun they have, and whether or not they succeed. Also, we care about our children so much that we often identify with them. This is super maternal of us, and is therefore okay and natural...mostly.

The problem is, it's hard for us to step back, draw a neat line at a rational point between where our interests end and theirs begin. We tend to get all bound up, not only in their successes, but their status, their social lives, and the million other things that
happen when we start living vicariously through our children. For example, I need to stop caring about if the other moms like me. It doesn't matter. I'm there for the Dictator. (But maybe I can make them all like me, anyway? That would be so pleasant....I'm very nice. And also maybe if the Dictator could just push herself a little harder and get her splits. And honestly, why does she keep sickling her foot? Dear heavens, what is that about?!  But it's not about me. It's about her. Obviously.)

The Dictator puts on the
shoes I totally remembered to
pack for recital. Stand in awe of
my remembery-ness.

4) Never forget anything. Ever. Not a single bobby pin, not a can of hairspray, not one pair of tights, not a sparkly hairpiece. Nothing. Ever. Not even if you have ten billion costumes and no organizational method aside from a series of plastic baggies and a giant plastic bin (it works, I swear!). Not even then. Super easy. You can totally do it.

5) If you fail to execute tip number 4, please see tip number 1. Hopefully, you have flawlessly executed tip number 1, so that you have created a culture of kindness in which there are numerous lovely souls from whom you can beg/borrow/steal that extra safety pin/mascara. If both tip number 4 and tip number 1 have proven themselves problematic, please see tip number 2. Find the nearest dance dad and send him to the drugstore for some mascara ASAP.

6) Be a model of good performance etiquette. Lead by example.

I'm still adjusting from a strict upbringing of hyper-sophisticated performance etiquette regulations: Don't cough. Don't rustle your program. Don't breathe. Don't. Move. A. Muscle. I do really well in super-serious opera houses, orchestra halls, and the like. I get really upset when ignorant Aunt Mable unwraps her cough drop mid-pas-de-deux.

But I gather that performance etiquette is a bit difference for twelve-hour competitions than it is for real performances. For example, people get up and down, necessarily talk a bit, and occasionally have to check phones for important messages. But this doesn't mean we get to turn into thoughtless idiots. Try not to stand in front of the people behind you for any extended period of time. Clap like a crazy person for every number, even the ones you don't love. Don't shove small children over in an effort to get backstage to help with a costume quick change. Things like that. It's for the good of humanity, I promise. (And I hereby vow not to let the Anarchist make cat noises that are too, too loud during your daughter's quiet and intense lyrical solo...at least, I'll try.)

"Mo-om! I know! Just go away!!"

7) It's not their fault. It's not your fault that I didn't organize my costume pieces adequately and am now missing one zebra print glove. It's not the Dictator's fault that I average four hours of sleep a night, and am now so irritable that the sound of her hair rustling against her neck fills me with rage. And it's no one's fault but my own that I didn't get up early enough to drink my cup of coffee before I left the house for the competition, and now I have a half-filled travel cup of Starbucks, a withdrawal headache, and a brand new coffee stain on the Dictator's sparkly costume. So why am I curt to the nearest innocent bystanders, angry with the Dictator, and complaining bitterly about the person who scheduled her group to dance so early? Because I love scapegoats, that's why. And I suspect that I'm not the only one. So if I accidentally whip a bottle of hair gel at your face in a fit of fury, please know that it's not your fault...and that I'm working on it.

8) Appreciate the dance teachers. Getting one precious child ready stresses me out. Teachers are responsible for multiple dancing people. The hyper ones, the moody ones, the daydreamy ones, the bossy ones, the shy ones. All of the little dancing people. Also, they have deal with all of the dancing people's parents. The hyper ones, the moody ones, the daydreamy ones, the bossy ones, the shy ones...you get the idea. These teachers are saints, I think. Appreciate them, because one day they will see more of your children than you do.

9) Adopt some extreme meditative practice/spiritual discipline that will allow you to transcend/banish all of your stress/fear/tension so that you can achieve the spiritual state of Dance Mom Yogi or somesuch.  That will make all of these other tips happen so easily. You will be able to remember hairnets, say kind things to other people while under extreme duress, give your dancer his/her space without concern for the security of his/her costume, get through the day without so much as a cup of tutu-destroying coffee, etc. Actually, don't do that. If you are that good at being a dance mom, it will be a little creepy. And then we will have a really hard time not being afraid of you. And then you will have caused us to fail at tip number 1. And then you will not be a team player. And you want to be a team player, don't you?

I love mine, too! I haven't even
forced them into indentured servitude, or
fed them questionable apples. Score!

10) Love your dancer. Hooray! Something we already do (unless you are an evil Disney villain stepmother, in which case, maybe this is the tip you can really focus on). And of course, recognize that every other dance mom loves her dancer, too. It just might look a little bit different. Some will be more intense than you. Others will be less intense. Some more organized or on-time. Some less. Some will seem more critical. Others will seem cheerfully oblivious. But, unless you see a dance mom offering her precious dancer a poisoned apple, or making her scrub the floors while wearing rags and singing to rats and birds, it's probably safe to assume that she loves her dancer just as much as you love yours. And so now we can all just link arms and sing Kumbaya and be nothing like those dance moms on TV.

Unless you forgot your bobby pins. Because then you just ruined the whole competition for everyone. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to throw a shrill, screaming fit. Probably while weeping. Because that's extra dramatic. And maybe I'll whip a bottle of hair gel at your face. Just for effect. And then maybe they'll put my dramatic self on TV. And I'll be a star! But it's not about me. It's about my dancer. Obviously.**

*For moms, a moment or two of human weakness and irritability is totally normal and nothing to be alarmed about. However, if you ever notice any of your child's dance teachers regularly behaving in the manner of reality show dance teacher, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named...flee! There are so many good dance teachers out there who are kind and respect their students. Find the nearest one and hand your child over. It's for the good of your dancer the universe. 

**I also neglected to mention the very important tip: have boatloads of money. Even if you have a nice dance studio that keeps costs low (like ours does) boatloads of money are still useful when it comes to paying for costumes, competition entries, pictures, workshops, t-shirts, shoes, tights, makeup, solos, programs, the endless snacks your ravenous dancer will want to consume, crystal-encrusted hairbows, hairspray, etc. If you don't have boatloads of money, become an enthusiastic fundraiser. So far, I have failed at both having boatloads of money and fundraising boatloads of money. I mean, I was an English major, so this is to be expected. Nevertheless, I urge other dance moms out there to do what I cannot, and be super-filthy-rich. Maybe have a yacht or something. It will make you better at this, I promise. Or else really love selling cookie dough door-to-door. I hear that works, too.

Dance of the Sugarplum Wildebeest

I've always wanted to be in the Nutcracker. Ever since I caught a glimpse of some dance company performing excerpts of the ballet near the elevator at the mall when I was tiny. I remember watching them slowly and gracefully execute the haunting Arabian variation and thinking, "I will do that some day."

I did not do that some day.

Dancing daughter. Dancing in her craftily-
obtained pink dress with "Guacamole" the
(probably haunted) creepy doll. 

Once I finally did start dancing, it became evident that my dancing style was more...erratic and flailing. More "Dance of the Fleeing, Wounded Wildebeest" than "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy." Sure, I had oodles of stage presence and could tap dance like a pro, but slow, graceful and haunting Arabian dances were clearly out of the question. Every year, I would go and watch my friends dance in the local Nutcracker and secretly imagine myself onstage in sparkling costumes not wincing in agony at the pain of my curly toes' knuckles rubbing themselves raw inside of my pointe shoes.

I have an active imagination.

Anyway, the Nutcracker was clearly out of the realm of realistic possibility. My choir sang during the snow scene for a few years and that was about as close as I got. My senior year of high school, a couple of my friends talked me into auditioning for another company, farther from home and easier to get into. I don't count that as a real experience, because while I got wonderful parts, I was awful at them. Chalk it up to the curly toes. 

But that's okay. Because all the while I was hatching a top-secret, highly diabolical plan.* I would dance in the "real" Nutcracker yet. I just needed time. And a daughter. A dancing daughter.


Now, many people live vicariously through their children, and that's all well and good, but I don't think those people dream big enough. Why simply bask in the glory of your children's accomplishments? Why not use your children's accomplishments to sneak your way into living out your childhood dreams? And so I waited. Patiently. And I put my plan into slow, deliberate action.

The Dictator as Angelina Ballerina.
Evil Plan step numbr 3.

1) Have a child. Done. And with time to spare, I might add.
2) Ascertain that said child is a girl, and more likely to have ballerina-aspirations. Done.
3) Have girl-child watch Angelina Ballerina like it was her job. Done. (Bonus points for girl-child asking to be Angelina Ballerina for Halloween. I am an overachiever.)
4) Enroll child in bitty preschool-person dance classes and hope it sticks. Done. With child number one. Child number two, not so much. But I have other dreams to live out. Other children to exploit. Her time will come. Her time will come.
5) Take girl-child to see local Nutcracker Ballet. Done.
6) Buy girl-child small souvenirs and refreshments at Nutcracker, creating an association between the Nutcracker and toys and candy. Done.
7) Allow child to audition for Nutcracker. Done. She begged to and all I had to do was say yes! I win.
8) Wait for request for parent dancers. Sign up. Muah ha ha!
9) Dance awkwardly/poorly as the confused (drunk?) party guest in the "real" Nutcracker! Childhood mission accomplished!

Yeah. That's right. Who needs to audition? Just wait 15 years, and you can get into the Nutcracker right through the backdoor.  They practically beg you. For real. Granted, it's not exactly my childhood dream of Arabian variations and Snow Queen solos, but whatever. Also, just wait until they see the secret pas de deux the Ballerina Bureaucrat (who wants this even more than I do) and I plan to bust out during the final act. It's going to be amazing. They'll totally cast me as Thirty-Something Clara next year, I can feel it!  Which is good, because if this evil plan had failed, I was going to have to resort to Wildebeest dancing in harem pants near the elevators at the mall, and I think we can all agree that no one wants that. 

So, I cordially invite you all to see my adorable Dictator  me, me, me (and the Ballerina Bureaucrat) in our Nutcracker debut. We are not good. We are phenomenal. Depending on your definition of "phenomenon." It will be the experience of a lifetime. In advance: you're welcome. *jazz hands*

* I didn't actually give birth to my children as part of a grand scheme to do ballet poorly. The Dictator actually wanted to audition for the Nutcracker all on her own. We signed up to dance in the party scene because the other parent volunteer options, such as "sell tickets" or "move scenery" seemed scary and intimidating. But "dance poorly and confusedly," strangely, did not. Also, you should definitely go to see the Dictator in the Nutcracker. She is going to be the world's cutest mouse. If you happen to glimpse the Ballerina Bureaucrat dancing with me, so much the better (or worse, depending on how things go). Maybe we'll provide comic relief (I think my character's back story is that she is ill-bred and maybe a little slow, and maybe a lot drunk...which will account for her confusion and propensity to crash into pieces of furniture and other dancers). But anyway...Dictator. Dancing. Adorably. Go see it. Get tickets here: http://plymouthcantonballet.org/

A lot cuter than I am. Also a lot
less likely to crash into things
while dancing.

Update (12/5/2014): 

Guess what! They're letting us all back onstage! They must be desperate. I get to wear an amazing bright red dress and try not to trip on people. The Bureaucrat gets to wear harem pants and carry people (I'm jealous of the harem pants). The Dictator gets to dance in the party scene this year. She gets to be a girl at the party and not a boy. She managed this by conveniently "forgetting" the boy choreography every time it was rehearsed, while diligently practicing the girl choreography at home, school, church, the grocery store, etc. She is also thrilled to be costumed in a pink dress. We think she managed this through some manipulative scheme, but she claims that she was the smallest child and that the pink dress was the smallest dress. Maybe she's been deliberately stunting her growth so as to fit into the pink dress? I wouldn't put it past the child. The Anarchist is being farmed out to various relatives all weekend with the promise that she can audition to be a mouse next year. The Dictator has been coaching her in "mouse runs" and "scared-mouse knee trembles" for the occasion. And it's all coming together. And so far no one is sick. I was convinced someone would be sick. (To be fair, I'm always convinced someone will be sick). So you should come watch my pink-clad baby, and my harem-pant clad husband dance their hearts out in a Christmas classic. Also, there's a 50% chance one of us might do something super-awkward on stage (and a 100% chance that I will try to work in some jazz hands). And that, my friends, might be well worth the price of admission.

Even MORE updated Update (11/30/2016):
Uh oh, they're letting us dance again. Mike is the only one of us who gets to live out my dreams of being in the Arabian dance. Sylvie gets to be a green flower (a role she's been dreaming of since...last year). And it's very likely that one of us will be awkward onstage, or that my hoop will totally fall off of my skirt, creating a hilariously scandalous wardrobe malfunction). And as an extra bonus, at least one of the dolls in the party scene is DEFINITELY haunted this year. You don't want to miss it!

Dance Moms

I know that none of you watch Lifetime Television's exploitative and hideous show Dance Moms because you're all better people than that. Good for you. I'm better than that, too. So, if this is a post about Dance Moms, I guess I have nothing more to say and you have nothing more to read, so you can all just close this page now and move on to do more important things like preparing that presentation (is that something that people with real jobs do?), caring for your children, or virtuous acts of charity. Run along. Shoo! There you go.

Okay. Are they gone? Good. To those of you real people still left reading, I feel completely free to confess that I was an avid/addicted watcher of the first two seasons of that hideous monstrosity of a show...and I loved every minute of it. Don't get me wrong, I feel guilty about it. I do. But it happened and I can't take it back so I'm' just going to embrace it: Abby Lee Miller, crying little girls, shrieking jealous harpy women and all.

I live vicariously through the Dictator...
which is awful...but notice the
complete lack of duck lips.

For those of you who are actually good people and are somehow still reading despite my clever ruse to eliminate you from my readership, Dance Moms is a "reality" show following a nasty dance studio owner with a God complex (Abby Lee Miller) who hurls insults at dancers' mothers as a motivational tool. Apparently it works, because the tiny prodigies keep winning all sorts of awards at the competitions they attend weekly (who the heck attends dance competitions weekly?!). And to be fair, if there is even a shred of reality in this show, the mothers probably deserve the insults. A few of them would have made perfect guests of the Jerry Springer Show, while others have mastered passive-aggression with an  artistry and skill that would make the meanest tween girl drool with envy. It is an awful show. I hate everything about it. And I loved it.

We find that roses, t-shirts and trophies are nicer
motivational tools than insults hurled at parents.

There are many theories as to why. There's the stated reason, of course, that I just really like to watch people dance, and there's a lot of dancing on the show. Also, there's the theory that I'm just a really awful person who likes exploitative television. Most compelling, perhaps, is the theory put forth by a psychologist I heard on NPR (yes, I also consume substantive, responsible media output), who speculated that one reason we so love these shows is that they make us feel infinitely better about our own parenting. Yes, I'm a dance mom who lives vicariously through my own child, but at least I'm not those dance moms. And I'm not.

Evidence:

Those Dance Moms: Put their daughters into the hands of a diabolical crazy woman.
This Dance Mom: Puts her daughter in the hands of a very nice group of teachers who really care about the children...and who are not crazy (I think).

Those Dance Moms: Get into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with their daughters' dance teacher and storm out of the studio on a regular basis.
This Dance Mom: Never gets into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with anyone. Usually leaves dance studio in an unstormy fashion.

Those Dance Moms: Have a special observation room in which they are filmed obsessively watching their daughters dance...because they want to assure that their precious offspring are getting the most attention.
This Dance Mom: Plasters herself to the observation window and peers annoyingly through the slats of the closed blinds in order to obsessively watch her daughter dance...because she's nosy as all sin.

Those Dance Moms: Have giant homes with massive kitchens, probably as a product of selling their lives, children and possibly souls to Lifetime Television
This Dance Mom: Has an itty bitty condo with a cramped kitchen, probably as a result of spending money on dance tuition instead of trivial things like housing.

Those Dance Moms: Dress their children in two-piece, custom-made, rhinestoned dance outfits with matching hair accessories, earrings, and full make-up for dance class.
This Dance Mom: Throws her kid in whatever black leotard may or may not happen to be clean at the moment, whichever tights happen to emerge first from beneath the pile of stuffed animals in her room, and endures the Dictator's shrill screams as she forces her ratty, unbrushed hair into a haphazard ponytail, which the Dictator will then proceed to pull out within the first ten minutes of class.

Those Dance Moms: Pitch hysterical, indignant fits when their children aren't granted multiple solos per competition.
This Dance Mom: Figures the Dictator will get a solo when she's good and ready (and to be fair, probably before that time) and isn't interested in pushing it, because solo entrance fees are really pricey and we can't even afford housing, remember?

Those Dance Moms: Get a little icked out by all the age-inappropriate raunchiness that can occur in the dance world (much to their credit...bravo, other Dance Moms!), and yet somehow still manage to put their preteen children onstage in nothing but push-up bras and booty shorts.
This Dance Mom: Is utterly disturbed by the age-inappropriate raunchiness at dance competitions which includes, but is not limited to: duck lips on preschoolers, push-up bras for costumes, eight-year-old girls making dirty sexual faces that I didn't learn to make until I was, like, 30, and choreography that, as the Bureaucrat puts it, "Would have every guy in here throwing dollar bills...if these girls were 15 years older." But they're not. They're seven. And so every man in there feels like a dirty, dirty pedophile when he accidentally wakes up from his nap/looks up from his i phone and happens to inadvertently glance at the stage full of gyrating little girls. As a result this dance mom has put her daughter in a studio that likes its children fully-clad, its dance dads unhorrified, and its choreography super-wholesome...and is happy with that, even if it means enduring more than her fair share of Disney music.

The Dictator and Anarchist with their unhorrified dance dad
after a recital in which they did NOT gyrate ANYTHING.

Those Dance Moms: Leave their husbands at home.
This Dance Mom: Wakes her husband up at 6 am so that she doesn't have to drive to all these dance things by herself. Tries to engage her husband in conversation about the dancing. Fails utterly. Takes solace in the fact that at least he's physically present, even if he's actually finishing The Hound of the Baskervilles on his Kindle and not watching the dancing at all.

Those Dance Moms: Have younger children who do not want to dance and prefer to stay home and eat chips...but dance anyway, even if only half-heartedly...while thinking of chips.
This Dance Mom: Has a younger child who actually stays home and eats chips.

The Anarchist and Dictator in last year's
dance costumes. This is the last dance
costume the Anarchist will ever own, as
she feels the dance studio gets too hot in
the summer and would thusly prefer to
stay at home and eat chips.

Those Dance Moms: Get into physical confrontations with one another over whose daughter is the apple of crazy-diabolical-dance-teacher-lady's eye.
This Dance Mom: Is well aware that her child isn't exactly the most coordinated dancer in the bunch and is just happy that she's active, part of a group, and loving the heck out of it. Also, is deathly afraid of physical confrontation.

Those Dance Moms: Live vicariously through their children (shame on them!)
This Dance Mom: Lives vicariously through her child. But feels bad about it. And tries to keep herself in check. And doesn't scream, throw tantrums, weep, or cattily talk about other moms. So...that's a start, right? Right?

Of course, right. Thank you, unethical, destructive "reality" television for validating my own view of myself and making anything I do look like super amazing good parenting, relative to anything those other moms do. And those of you who watch/have watched that glorious abomination of a television show, please take solace in the fact that it provides a useful service to self-doubting moms everywhere...and also take solace in the fact that you're not alone. But whatever you do, don't let the good, kind, wholesome-stuff-watchers of the world know what we're up to. And now I must be going. I have some Toddlers in Tiaras to catch up on Beowulf to read...and some dirty tights to salvage off the floor.