16 Reasons Why I Can't Just Let it Go and Enjoy the Fifth Grade Graduation Ceremony

1. Because I CAN'T SEE. Not just because some unreasonably tall man is sitting in front of me wearing a hat. Not just because I didn't get to the school a full 45 minutes early, and so I had to sit near the back. I can't see because there is a mob of people selfishly standing directly in everyone's line of sight despite repeated requests/demands by so many other parents that they get out of the aisle return to their seats so that people can see their own children graduate.

2. Because this is the mentality that got us the Trump candidacy. It is here. Right in front of me. Manifest in yoga pants and dad jeans that refuse to sit in chairs for the good of humanity.

3. Because I don't want to care that the lady standing directly between me and viewing my precious offspring has absolutely awful underwear lines, but she has put her underwear lines right in front of my eyes.

4. Because I cannot quell the rage seething up from inside, and I might actually murder someone in a second, so maybe it's better if we just addressed this whole awful scenario instead of pretending that no one is being overtly selfish (aisle mob), and that no one else (ahem...me) is being overtly self-righteous.

5. Because the meek shall inherit the earth, but apparently not the photo opportunities at this graduation ceremony, which seems patently unfair and so can't these people who feel like they are the center of the universe get just a little bit smote or something? Puh-leez??

This is how a smug, morally superior person
photographs their child. Poorly. With lots of
parent shoulders in the shot. But no one else's
view was sacrificed for this amazing
photograph. (Dictator is the one in shades...in
the interest of privacy, the other children have
been turned into hamsters).

 6. Because the PTO Facebook page is full of parents fearfully reporting their children almost being run over by other parents at the crosswalk, because these people are actually driving into the crossing guard and young children while they cross the street, because it's not their children crossing the street, so why should they care? Same mentality.

7. Because I'm probably actually a Pharisee and you are breaking the rules.

7.1 (because I fail at counting): Because this is what you get when you promote being "proactive" in a society that already has a problem with acting wisely and considering others and the long-term consequences of actions. You get people "proactively" shoving their way into whatever space they damn well choose, to get the perfect photo of their kids at the expense of the less proactive/more considerate parents. You get that. And a Trump candidacy.

8. Because this song is sad and touching, and the ever-stoic Dictator is fighting back tears as she sings it, which is pretty emotionally intense for the Dictator. I would like to be crying for sentimental reasons, and instead I look up and have to cry for dad-jeans-in-my-face reasons.

9. Because we're all here to celebrate that several hardworking teachers spent years painstakingly teaching our children to share, take turns, think about others, and be polite, and then Yoga Pants, Underwear Lines, Dad Jeans, and Shove-y McGee and their dozen or so friends over here are undermining all those years of hard work in one horrific bad example of how to behave in groups.

10. Because I actually want to believe that most people are inherently good, and you're absolutely ruining that for me.

11. Because it's so lovely up here at the top of Kohlberg's moral pyramid, reflecting on universal principals and my own self-righteous superiority, and I feel it's only fair to drag you up from self-interested level two, where you've currently planted yourselves. Please. Come. Ascend the heights. Join me in the revelry of fretfully over-analyzing every single potential decision for its moral value until we're all paralyzed and inactive together, constantly debating the best  course of action, and never taking a single photo of our kids, because what about the negative consequences of our cameras' flashes for the people around us? Doesn't that sound fun?

12. Because you're better than this.

13. Because I'm pretty agoraphobic, and a dozen mom butts in my face is really not helping.

14. Because both of my parents were music teachers, and I have impeccable concert etiquette, which is pretty transferable to all performance/ceremony situations. One really central part of this etiquette is remaining seated like not-a-jerk for the duration of the performance/ceremony. You are being really bad at that right now. It is causing me physical pain to watch you be this bad at it. I want to help you. I want to teach you. I want to physically force you into your seat and pin you down until you stay put like a good audience member.

15. Because really, though, when we let nonsense like this happen, we create a culture where no one is accountable for the harm they cause others. This is a little thing, but it's the same mentality that leads to the bigger things. Our children are watching. Our children are learning. They are learning to take what they want, without worrying who they are taking it from. They are learning to do what pleases them, without concern for who they are stepping on in the process. They are learning that rules and compassion are for other, "weaker" people. They are learning to bully. They are learning that "winners" push and shove and ignore pleas to stop. They are learning that "losers" are those who follow the rules. They are learning that adults should act like children. They are learning that they are the center of the universe. They are learning 'murica. They are learning a Trump candidacy.

16. Because we're all better than this. So I'm not going to just let it go and enjoy the ceremony. I can't. Because when I let it go, when we all let it go, we forget to remind each other to be human. My kid already walked. I already got my picture. That's not the point. I'm not going to quietly accept that other people can't see their kids. I'm going to keep telling you to sit down. I'm going to keep reminding us that we are human. And I'm going to keep reminding myself to be human, too. Deep breaths. Be decent. Shoving people down like dominos will not grant you the moral high ground. Surrender. Sigh. Hug your kid. Write a blog post.

Look! I got a lovely picture of the Dictator,
and I didn't even harm any ne'er-do-wells
in the process!

The Anarchist and the Dictator Go to the Doctor, and I Die of Embarrassment

We took the whole day off for dental/doctor appointments yesterday. The Dictator was despondent most of the day, because she knew she was getting a flu shot, and her pain tolerance is pretty much zero. The Anarchist was giddy for most of the day because going to the doctor's means a captive audience, which for the Anarchist is very best thing.

Aww...look how wholesome, and normal,
and NOT embarrassing they look! Looks
can be deceiving.

 THE DENTIST APPOINTMENT

The dentist appointment was fine, except that I maybe broke their Keurig machine and didn't tell them. Also, some kid who looked like he could be one of the college students I work with came trotting out of the back yelling, "Molly? Molly?"

Me: Yes?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Hey! Um...so one of your kids. Uh...there are two of them, so I get confused...uh...the Dictator. You know her chipped tooth?
Me: Um...no?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Yeah. You know. The bottom tooth that's all grey and chipped?
Me: I...uh...don't look into her mouth ever. Mouths are gross.
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid (whispering conspiratorially): Ha! Well, the chipped tooth came out in shards and I had to extract each shard separately. I didn't charge you, though.
Me (wondering if Twelve Year Old Dental Kid pulled one over on his dental superiors and if he might get fired for not charging for a shard extraction): Uh...thanks. We appreciate it.

[Twelve Year Old Dental Kid skips away...probably to play video games or whatever boys that age do]

You guys. I found out from my kids afterward that there was no way Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was going to get in trouble from the grown ups in the office. Because here's the thing...Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was not a hygienist. He was not a tech. Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was the DENTIST. He has already been through dental school. He is the Doogie Howser of teeth, probably. (Please help me, I'm getting old. This is what aging feels like, isn't it?)

The Doctor's Appointment

To set the scene, imagine me holding 17 coats (okay, three coats, but they were puffy), the Dictator in the fetal position next to me, glaring at the Doctor, and the Anarchist on the Doctor's stool, spinning ceaselessly. Then imagine the Dictator intermittently getting up to practice pirouettes and pique turns, then sitting down when she realized she was supposed to be angry.

The Fat Assassin has issues.

Doc: How is everyone?
Dictator: [lifts head and glares]
Anarchist: GOOD! Except the Dictator never plays with me and our cat is mean!

Doc: So, Anarchist, who lives in your house with you?
Anarchist: My mom, dad, sister, and the cat.
Dictator (under her breath): You mean the murder kitten?
Doc: And how is everyone getting along?
Anarchist: Everyone is getting along great. Except the cat. She has issues.

Doc: Who's going first?
Dictator (snarling): I'm going never.
Anarchist: I WILL! Because I'm braver than the Dictator. Also, she never plays with me.
Doc: So, are you ready for a hearing exam?
Anarchist: Oh my GOSH! I LOVE those things! A hearing exam is how I got my glasses!

Doc: Do you take vitamins?
Anarchist: Yeah. When my parents remember to buy them for me. Dictator doesn't though, because they NEVER remember to buy her kind.
Doc: [raises eyebrows at me]
Me: [sinks into puffy coat pile]

Doc: Do you guys drink pop?
Me: (furiously pantomiming to children that they must answer "no" because don't they remember last time?)
Kids (joyfully and emphatically): YES!
Doc: About how often?
Me: Well, usually only about once a month...
Kids (drowning me out with their enthusiasm): ALL OF THE TIME!

Doc: Anarchist, hop up on the table.
Anarchist: Why? Are you going to check all my cat bites?
Doc: Your what?!?!
Anarchist: What are you going to check?
Doc: What do I usually check?
Anarchist: My butt?
Doc: Uh...your ears and nose and throat?
Anarchist: And my cat bites?
Doc: Do you ever take the cat to the vet, Anarchist?
Me (apologetically): Well, it's been a while...a lot longer than it should have been. We actually need to do that...
Anarchist: NEVER! We NEVER take her! And she's still alive! Maybe that's why she bites me...
Me (hiding in the coat pile): Well, I mean she's an indoor cat, so...
Anarchist: When she dies we can get a puppy! A puppy will play with me, because the Dictator sure won't.

Doc: Anarchist, how are your bowel movements?
Anarchist: Do you mean POOP?! [proceeds to detail every bowel movement from the past several weeks in detail, with sound effects, song, and alarmingly specific descriptions...this conversation lasts close to 5 minutes, and can most likely be heard from the lobby...of the neighboring building]

This one can make
up lyrically impressive
songs about feces
on the spot.

Doc: Dictator, how much sleep do you get?
Me: Well, she goes to bed at 9, but she reads, so it's probably later. We try, though...
Anarchist: THE DICTATOR STAYS AWAKE UNTIL ALMOST MIDNIGHT EVERY NIGHT! I SEE HER!
Me (defensively, reasonably, with great fear of being judged): It's probably not quite midnight, Anarchist. I'm sure she...
Anarchist (butting in): It IS! I check the clock! But I sleep in, so it's fine.
Doc: Dictator, you need to get more sleep.
Dictator [very seriously, while crashing into the wall mid-pirouette]: I can't. I have to read.
Doc: Well, maybe read for a shorter period of time.
Dictator (leaping/crashing into the counter): If I did that, how could I possibly finish reading everything there is to read? Be reasonable.

Doc: Dictator, how's school?
Dictator: Boring.
Doc: Really? What kind of grades do you get?
Dictator: All A's
Doc: So what's your favorite subject?
Dictator: Science? No...Math? No...uh...none of them. I don't like any of them. I just want to dance all the time.

This one's probably plotting
the untimely demise of
her pediatrician.

Doc: You want to be a dancer when you grow up?
Dictator (appalled): Of course not!
Doc: What do you want to be?
Dictator: Uh, NOT getting a shot?

Flu immunizations enter the room. The Dictator runs to a corner and proceeds to behave like a terrified, trapped animal. The Anarchist sees this, and decides that all of the drama cannot belong to the Dictator. She immediately launches into fake tears and fake trembling, cowering behind me while shrieking and pointing at the nurse. The Dictator is chased around the room. The Anarchist screams as much as possible. Flu immunizations occur. The Anarchist laughs. The Dictator looks betrayed and enraged. She glowers a death glare at the doctor.

Doc: You can hit me if you want, Dictator.
Dictator (because hitting him wouldn't kill him, and she clearly wants him dead): No.
Anarchist (gleefully): I'LL hit 'im for ya! [proceeds to whale on doctor's arm the entire way down the hall to check-out].

All of the nurses at the nurses' station were laughing hysterically at us as we exited. I'm pretty sure the meaning of our existence as a family is to provide entertainment with our crazy antics. We are like the jesters of suburban Michigan. But while I enjoy entertaining people, I think the Bureaucrat gets to take them to their next doctor's appointment. I'll be at the vet with The Fat Assassin (murder kitten)...she's far less embarrassing.

Earwax, the Musical

It is the second week of Christmas break. My kids are bored, loopy, and not getting along. The Anarchist is actually threatening to off herself/others less than usual, which is a positive for sure, but the amount of squealing and thrashing in my home has increased to epic levels. My nerves are shot. I want to go home. Oh wait, this is home. So when the Anarchist begged the Dictator to play with her for the thirty-thousandth time, the Dictator answered with an emphatic "no," and the Anarchist looked like she might die of sorrow, the Bureaucrat and I lost our minds and made a desperate suggestion.

Bureaucrat: "Why don't you guys put on a play with your dolls together?"

Dictator: "Oh yeah! We never showed you guys the Belly Button Lint Show! We could do THAT show for you!"

Bureaucrat (who won't be around this evening, and is clearly a total jerk): "That's a GREAT idea!"

Anarchist (singing, to the tune of "Do You Want to Build a Snowman"): "Do you want to build a LINT MAN??"

Dictator: "Wait. I remember performing that for them already."

Anarchist (crestfallen): "Oh. Yeah."

Dictator: "Well, I guess we can't play together, after all."

[At this point, the Anarchist looks like she's about to fling her plate across the table and start shrieking like a monkey, which is a thing that can actually happen in our family at dinnertime.]

Me (really desperate, now): "Uh...what about a sequel? A sequel to the Belly Button Lint Show. What about...uh..."Earwax?"  Uh..."Earwax, the Musical?"

Anarchist and Dictator (in unison, and harmony, and peace forever): "YES!!! Earwax, the Musical! It's gonna be all improv...'cause no one wants to deal with reading scripts."

Guys, I brought this on myself. I know I did. But please help me share the load. It's too much for one woman. I need a village. A village to watch Earwax, the Musical with me. Please take your seats, silence your electronic devices, and refrain from eating in the theater (it really distracts the plastic actors). The show is about to begin.

The Cast L-R: Dictator, Responsible Doll, Phoebe the Earwax victim,
Anarchist Jr. the wounded, Anarchist. This is before the onstage nudity.
Onstage nudity is totally okay, because it's for the sake of art, and we are
all about that in our super-classy family.

Oh geez, guys. There's a curtain.

The curtain is the Dictator standing behind a fleece Unicorn blanket. The curtain is undulating.

From behind the curtain, the Anarchist emerges to introduce the show, and reveal some unpleasant information (while jumping up and down without ceasing):

"Hello, and welcome to our show, Earwax, the Musical."  Hang in there, because it might be a pretty darned long one!"  


(Oh, lord, I am doomed.)

ACT I

The curtain does a little pirouette and then struts away. A handful of dolls emerge from a pile behind the Bureaucrat's chair. One, who I assume is the lead character, is covered in bandages and casts, and limps out on crutches is flung onto the stage next to some crutches. All of the characters launch into a song and dance routine song and bouncing up and down routine which contains the opening (and, I fear, ONLY) musical number.

"Phoebe has a lot of medical problems from pee to belly button lint. Phoebe has a lot of medical problems, and we don't know what to do about IT! [dramatic tempo change] Phoebe has medical prob-LEMS. We never know what it could be. Phoebe has medical PROB-lems. And now she's really gotta pee!!!!"

The song continues on for quite some time, and considering its unscripted nature, it is actually decently in unison. More bodily functions and maladies are listed, and there is a lot of bouncing.

Then, a doll (the American Girl knock-off with the feral-cave-woman dreadlocks, who is usually relegated to playing the bad guy) in a white dress collapses, and the other dolls crowd around her obviously concerned. She begins thrashing. The other dolls act startled.

DOLLS, in unison: Oh no, Phoebe! Are you okay?

"Wait, who's she?" I ask. I thought Phoebe was the totally-wounded looking doll.

"It's Phoebe. Duh!" my kids reply, totally breaking character.

"Then who's the doll with all the broken bones and bandages?"

"That's Anarchist Jr. She just likes to break body parts to get attention, but she's not important in this show."

ANARCHIST JR., melodramatically: OHHHH! MY LEG IS KILLING ME! CAN I SIT DOWN?

An exam is ordered for Phoebe (the doll on the floor, not the doll in the casts). An exam that requires doll-nudity. This poor doll always has to get naked. Good thing she has crazy dreadlocks with which to cover herself.

The next scene is basically stage directions spoken aloud. Poop and pee samples are taken into a party hat. A fight breaks out over who gets to take the earwax sample. Anarchist Jr. talks incessantly about how much her broken body parts hurt. The scene fades with everyone talking distractedly, while the naked earwax-having crazy doll continues to thrash around on the ground.

ACT II

Scene I

The scene opens as some doll or other manages to extract a bloody, yes bloody ear wax sample from the unfortunate Phoebe. Then, in a moment of supernatural majesty, four aging Cabbage Patch dolls sporting tiaras and wands emerge from Phoebe's ear are tossed haphazardly onto the stage.

EARWAX SISTERS (singing-ish): We are Millie, Maggie, Michelle, and Maddie and we are the Earwax Sisters! Oh, we are your earwax, yes, we are your earwax, oh we are your earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax...repeat, ad nauseum.

(Okay. So I lied. There was kind of another musical number. But really, this was more like bad Gregorian chant sung by gross Muppets. It doesn't really count.)

At this point, one of the sisters, whose names the Anarchist and Dictator had obviously forgotten (I reminded them, as I had been taking copious notes to keep my sanity), spoke.

MILLIE, OR WHOEVER: "Hey Phoebe. We've been livin' in your ear since you were two years old. Hee hee hee. WE SNEAKY!" 

OTHER, RESPONSIBLE SOUNDING DOLL (i.e., one belonging to the Dictator): Can you guys please go back into her ear?

MAGGIE, OR WHOEVER: Okay! G'BYE Chicky Poos!

PHOEBE (overwhelmed, by the singing ear wax, or her hair, or something): Can I put my clothes back on now?

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: No. We need to obtain further information.

ANARCHIST JR.: Can I sit down? My legs are killing me!

At this point, there is some sort of twinkly-ish sound effect, as yet another doll is lowered in from above the Bureaucrat's chair. We are told that she is Joy the Fairy. Just to drive the point home, She announces herself as well.

JOY THE FAIRY, who is clearly mildly insane: I am Joy the Fairy. I will give you answers. 

The other characters turn to her, expectantly. Earwax mysteries are a big deal.

JOY THE FAIRY: You will need to go to the doctor for answers, because I don't actually contain any answers. 

Oh, thanks a lot, Joy. Fat lot of good you turned out to be. Luckily an elderly doll (we are told this fact by an omniscient offstage voice) enters the scene. Her name is Doctor Brown. She has a strange, elderly person accent, rendering about half of her dialogue unintelligible. 

DOCTOR BROWN: I believe you have a severe case of the...

OTHER DOLLS (frantically): Please leave! Please leave! Please leave! It's not a good time!

(First they send the ear wax back into her ear, then they reject any attempt at a diagnosis. I'm starting to believe these other dolls don't really want  to see Phoebe cured. Jerks.)

DOCTOR BROWN: ...a severe case of the Earwax Family!

Offstage Omniscient Voice: "No, Anarchist! They're not family, they're just sisters!" 

DOCTOR BROWN: Oh yeah. Okay. Earwax Sisters. Anyway, get to an ER right now.

OTHER DOLLS: We don't have enough money to go to the ER, stupid!

These dolls must have our insurance.

DOCTOR BROWN: Here. Take all the money I have. But only spend it on the ER.

OTHER DOLLS: Okay!

ACT III

The Mall
An End Table by the Couch

DOLLS: Doctor Brown just gave us two million dollars. She won't even notice if half of it is missing. Let's go to the mall!

The aftermath of the mall trip. No one bothered
to buy Phoebe any clothes, but at least she got
a noisemaker.

The dolls proceed to "shop," decking themselves out in leis, party hats, and old New Year's noisemakers that they purchase with their ill-gotten gains.

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: We're just gonna deprive her of all her money, because that's what we do.

JOY THE FAIRY (entering noisily and without her headpiece): You need to go to the MOUNTAIN. NOW!!! You must find the TREE! FIND THE TREE! (And I need to find my headband), but you guys should FIND THE TREE!

Her voice makes me want to stab my ears out, but I sit politely, because these are my precious children.

The Anarchist and the Dictator become a flurry of activity. It appears the scene is shifting. When they settle again. Joy the Fairy is decked out in all green, and is perched atop a foot stool.

The other characters ask her where they can find the tree.

Joy smiles mysteriously and then reveals the truth.

She's the tree.

Joy's flippin' insane.

Joy the Fairy is a tree. Joy the Fairy is nuts.

ACT III

A Vomitorium?

This whole scene can be summed up in three lines. 

JOY THE FAIRY: Do you guys want answers? Then you need to barf. That's all you have to do to get answers.

PHOEBE: Who wants to eat the barf? I call the puddle of pink barf!

OTHER DOLLS: Do we all need to eat the barf, or is Phoebe the only one who needs to? To be safe, let's just all eat the barf. 

ANARCHIST JR.: Oh! My legs!

ACT IV

Scene I

A Garden Grove, on a Hillside

A  Battered Footstool

JOY THE FAIRY: I've been stupid all this time. It's time for me to actually tell you what you have to do. Journey for two hours to the forbidden sea and turn left at the unicorns.

You guys. Act III never had to happen. I could have spent the time I was using to cover my eyes and rock back and forth to self-comfort during all those barf scenes to do yoga, or commune with nature, or clean my house play word games on my phone.

Okay, so maybe Act III was really a moment of self-discovery for the dolls. Like, maybe they realized how interrelated their fates are. Or maybe they realized their carnal cravings. Maybe they will grow from here. Maybe Act III was a symbolic turning point! Probably my kids are artists. They are geniuses and this is a masterpiece. It is just too deep for my comprehension.

Anyway, the characters at some point board an invisible submarine. We know this because they mutter things about being on a submarine. Eventually, they find the unicorn.

UNICORN (in dignified tones): Go where I have spit my beautiful barf. There you will find your answers.

Artistic. Geniuses.

Scene II

The Undersea Realm of the Unicorn's Beautiful Barf

My IKEA rocking chair

The dialogue in this scene is mostly unworthy of print. But the plot really picks up here.

First, the characters discover a giant, underwater seal. I don't think that the Anarchist and Dictator had really planned on the discovery of the seal, but the Anarchist's seal just happened to be in the path of where the characters were headed in their search for unicorn barf, and it was just too imposing to ignore.

DOLLS: Oh my gosh! The Giant Seal of Answers. IT will give us answers! 

They proceed to spend a great deal of time discussing how the giant seal might do this. I proceed to spend a great deal of time wondering why they didn't just trust elderly Doctor Brown's diagnosis in the first place. I also spend a great deal of time wondering if it would be rude to get up and get myself a snack. Or maybe two snacks.

EARWAX SISTERS (who have apparently reemerged from Phoebe's ear during this odyssey): We have followed you here to get answers...oh no! The water! It isn't safe for us! We're disintegrating! DISINTEGRATING!

Okay. So my kids ARE geniuses. Joy the Fairy may have been loony as all sin, but she knew what she was up to all along. They needed to undergo this journey together. To sing together, to barf together, to ingest barf together, to search for unicorn barf together. They thought the answers were in these things, and maybe--in an indirect way--they were. The wax that clouded their ability to hear the truth could only dissolve once they had discovered that it wasn't just Phoebe, the dreadlocked pariah, who was sick. The sickness was in all of them. It was only when they underwent the trials of their quest and were plunged into the seal-infested waters of rebirth could they reemerge as self-aware dolls, connected as a community, healthy and whole.

EPILOGUE

Doctor Brown's Office

PHOEBE: Hooray! I'm better!

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: Not so fast. We just underwent a treacherous journey. We need to have you checked by the doctor again to make sure you aren't worse. Take off your clothes.

PHOEBE: Really?!

OTHER DOLLS: DO IT!!!

DOCTOR BROWN: Well, your bloody earwax is gone, but I'm afraid you have endless diarrhea. You will have to keep eating barf until you are better.

PHOEBE (defeated): When will that be?

DOCTOR BROWN: Christmas time.

PHOEBE: But...but...wait! That's a whole year!

Uproarious laughter ensues.

Phoebe is once again the naked, wild-haired social outcast. Order has been restored in the doll kingdom.

The Earwax Sisters return to the stage and sing a rousing reprise of the Earwax song.

Everyone cheers.

ANARCHIST JR. (staggering, dramatically): Owww! My poor broken leg!

The End.

You're Welcome.

Saved by the (Taco) Bell, or Where Babies Come From...Kind Of

As you may be aware, I've been successfully avoiding having the talk with either of my children for years now. I almost had it a month or so ago, but the book I was going to use was checked out from the library. (Did I say "talk?" I meant to say "throw a book on her bed and pray for the best"). Look, I had hoped that the topic would come up in the natural course of conversation, and that I would be able to address it without any trace of awkwardness, as if it were no big deal. But that didn't ever happen. In reality, it turns out that I am really great at being vague, and at changing the topic of uncomfortable conversations, so that my Anarchist did not even know what a penis was until just last year (I'm actually not even sure that she does now, to be honest, but at least she is comfortable enough with the word to shriek it ad nauseum at Christmas brunch).

Precious baby. Loud, expensive, and
very beloved.

The problem is, if I don't get to it first, the school might, and heaven knows what they'll teach my darling offspring. They might tell her that if she ever has sex out of wedlock, she will give birth to a six-headed demon baby and burn in hellfire for all eternity, or they might take a page from my ninth grade health teacher's book, and tell her that literally everyone her age has already had sex, and that if she says she's never participated in a full-on orgy, she's a total liar. Either way, no thank you. I'd like her to view this beautiful and completely natural act for what it is: totally awkward, over-hyped, and potentially resulting in loud, expensive, and of course, very beloved children.

So now I've been pretty much looking for opportunities to discuss intercourse with my children. But suddenly, they've stopped presenting themselves. Suddenly, all my children want to do is discuss Minecraft YouTube videos and computer games with strange animals who collect rare objects and constantly report one another for "scamming." Not helpful.

So imagine my joy when, as I was walking my children to an all-organic, locally sourced cafe for a healthy, after school meal  we drove to Taco Bell's drive-thru for after school nachos, my children helpfully brought up the topic all on their very own.

Anarchist: "When do people start needing deodorant?"

Me (just feeling the perfect, totally-not-awkward sex talk moment coming on): "All different ages. It usually happens some time between now and when you are a teenager. Your body starts to change because it's getting ready to grow up and do things that grown up bodies do. The change is called puberty, and it's totally natural. It happens to everyone...blah, blah, blah, etc."

Anarchist (playing right into my hands): "What other changes happen to your body?"

Me: "Well usually, you need deodorant, and you'll need to shower more because your skin produces more oil. Later on, you'll start your period." (There! I said it. Out loud. Ha!)

Dictator (even though we've totally talked about this before): "What's a period?"

Me: [explains menarche in the perfect, natural, non-awkward way, doesn't use the word "menarche," because seriously, who talks like that?]

Dictator: "Oh yeah."

Anarchist: "Why does your body do that?"

Me (deep breath, this is happening): "Because some day you might want to have a baby. This is your body's way of getting itself ready to do that."

The amazing Dictator. Because sometimes
the "medicine" doesn't work. And sometimes
we're really glad it didn't.

Anarchist: "Oh. I don't think I want to have a baby. I think Boyfriend and I will adopt. I don't want my body to make the baby. How do I stop it from doing that? Is there medicine?"

Me (feeling rushed): "Umm...actually there is. It's called 'birth control.' It can keep your body from having a baby if you're not ready."

Anarchist: "So if I take this medicine, it will work for sure, right? Because I really think I don't want to have a baby grow inside my body."

Me (totally sidetracked): "Well...I mean, it's supposed to work, but it doesn't quite always work. Sometimes people have babies even when they don't mean to, even when they're taking medicine. [Nods meaningfully at the Dictator, who we totally conceived while on "medicine." I promise she didn't notice the nod, as she was blissfully absorbed in drawing pictures of Minecraft YouTubers]. That's why it's important to make sure you're with someone you want to spend the rest of your life with when you decide to have a baby. It would be very nice if you were married. It's also ideal if you have somewhere to live, and enough money to take care of the baby. Otherwise it can be very, very difficult. So that's why you need to be wise about having a baby."

Anarchist: "Yeah. Well, if I ever have a baby, I'm never working again. So I'd want to wait until we had some money. Otherwise, Boyfriend would probably have to work day and night at three different jobs, and I would never see him. Poor Boyfriend! That's too much work for one person...but I'm not going to work. Not if I have a baby. That will be for poor Boyfriend to do. And I will have to feel so bad for him."

Me (dumbfounded by her unabashed laziness): "Oh."

Anarchist: "Okay. But I have one important question, though. So...if sometimes the medicine doesn't work, can I wait until I'm ready to have a baby? Maybe I should just tell the doctor to stop putting that baby inside of me...when the doctor starts doing that...when it's time."

Me: "Sweetie, the doctor doesn't put the baby inside of you."

Anarchist: "Okay. Then I have another important question."

[Deep breath. Here goes...]

Me: "Yes, Anarchist?"

Anarchist: "If the doctor doesn't put the baby inside your body, then how does it get there?"

Me (ready to launch into "the talk" for real this time...I might even go all out and say "scrotum..." out loud): "Well, when you're ready to have a baby...

Nice Taco Bell Drive Thru Girl: "Welcome to Taco Bell. You can go ahead with your order."

Me: "Oh! Hi. Umm..could I please have.a side of nachos, a side of rice, a soft taco supreme, a soft taco...no, that's two separate tacos, one regular and one supreme...right, right...and two nachos bell grande no meat, please. That will be all. Thanks so much."

Yeah. That's right. That's how my "talk" ended. Because I am a coward. And I have bad timing. And also because I have a strange attraction to bad, albeit convenient, queso.

In my defense, I tried to bring it up again. As we were driving away, arms-deep in crunchy chips and shredded iceberg, I turned to the Anarchist and said, "I'm so sorry we were interrupted by tacos, Anarchist. Wasn't there something you wanted to ask me?"

Anarchist: "No? Why would I ask you something? Can we please go home now so I can eat tacos and get scammed in computer games involving strange animals?" (that last sentence may be a paraphrase...)

Me: "Actually, I think you were asking a very important question about how babies were made, and I'd love to tell you all about it over our vegan, locally sourced meal. In fact, I never want you to feel uncomfortable discussing anything with me, especially something as natural as sexual intercourse. Also, I will happily define anatomical terms for you, including 'scrotum,' 'penis,' and 'labia,' and I will do this without flinching or giggling, or anything, because I am an adult and an ideal parent."

Actual Me: "Yes! Let's go eat tacos and remain ignorant forever!"

And so we did.

Listen. It'll be totally fine. At least I didn't tell them they would produce six-headed hell demons, or encourage them to have orgies. I mean, I'm sure they never really need to know where babies come from, right? After all, as the Anarchist is quick to point out, they can always adopt.

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.

The First Noelle

Much fanfare has been made (by me) about the miraculous birth of the extremely premature Anarchist. Admittedly, her birth and subsequent thriving-ness does make a pretty good story. But every year I realize that I have once again neglected the Dictator. Her birth was, by normal standards, unremarkable. But if she's going to take over a small Central American country someday, someone is going to have to write her biography, and that someone should be me. So without further ado, the otherwise neglected birth narrative of a Dictator:

Dictator Noelle

One early Christmas Eve morning, a young, beautiful, and totally pure virgin close-enough-to-a-virgin left her small apartment for her job managing a bagel shop. It was an unromantic job, and one for which she was clearly overqualified, being that she was also a genius. But she was a hard-working martyr with aspirations of graduate, or maybe divinity school. She was also heavily addicted to bagels.

The girl was childless, and as her no-skid shoes crunched  through the new-fallen snow, she congratulated herself for staving off her maternal urges, making the wise choice to put off childbearing until after she had earned her Ph.D. and could selflessly grace the world with her many gifts. Then, she assured herself, she could move into a quaint, craftsman style home in some nice college town, and set about being probably the best and most humble mother ever. And also a genius.

It wasn't until halfway through her arduous work shift, while scraping salmon cream cheese from the side of a broken toaster, that a startling thought occurred to the girl: the time of her uncleanness was nigh. (Shut up. It's a totally natural thing. I'm allowed to put it in the story.) In fact, the time had come and gone and--what, with her work feeding orphans watching HGTV in her pajamas--she had hardly noticed.

The girl took no breaks at work, because she was a martyr and such, but paused long enough to call her humble, hardworking husband on her gigantic cell phone to request that he run an important errand for her before the many church services they were to attend that night. (No. For real. Like, we went to three or something. It was insane.) 

And so it came to pass that the noble Bureaucrat marched purposefully to the Meijer checkout line and confidently purchased a snow shovel, cat litter, tampons (shut up), and a set of inexpensive pregnancy tests. "Rough day?" asked the cashier.

Upon her return to the modest apartment, the young, beautiful genius girl of humble purity fell upon her bed, exhausted, and certain that she was mistaken about the time of her uncleanness. She was just so pure and also so good at planning things and doing everything just the right way. It was all certain to be a silly mix-up.

But curiosity got the better of the girl and she made her way into the inner sanctum of the apartment. And lo, the angel of the pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, confused one! You may or may not be pregnant! This little blue smudgy plus-ish sign is really difficult to read! The Lord may or may not be with you this day!"  And so the girl tried again and again. And again it came to pass that the urine yielded no clearer sign. Panicked now, the girl called her sister, the Pretty One, and screamethed unto her, "HELP!"

And so it came to pass that the Pretty One, risking her own lily white reputation, made her way to the nearest Target and bought the priciest, most top-of-the-line, fancy, gold-embossed, ridiculous pee stick money can buy. And she brought it unto the girl. And the girl peed upon it.

And the angel of the fancy pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, terrified one. You are totally, unambiguously pregnant. Like, you are super, obviously, clearly with child. You should be totally terrified because you have no health insurance, no respectable career, no graduate degree, and no second room for the baby to sleep in. You are totally screwed. And now you will conceive in your womb (where else?), and bear a child, and you will name it Dictator Noelle. It will be the offspring of the most underemployed. The child shall reign over everyone who crosses its path forever, and its control over its environment will have no end."

And the girl said unto the fancy pee-stick, "How can this be, since I am not yet a Ph.D.?" And the girl also said all of the expletives.

The fancy pee-stick said to her, "Were you aware that the birth control pill is only, like 99.5% effective? Statistically speaking, someone's gonna get pregnant while on it, sister! What made you think you were somehow immune? For nothing is impossible with God."

And the girl said, "Here am I, the servant of my circumstances; let it be with me according to your blinking digital "PREGNANT" indicator."

In those hours, the girl set out and went with haste to pretty much all of the church services. And in every sanctuary, a picture of another more-perfect, more-beautiful, younger, and even-purer girl was displayed. And in every sermon, the terrified genius girl was reminded that the perfect/beautiful/young/even-purer girl had to give birth in a dirty cave, with no access to health insurance, child birth classes, or clean sheets. That even though she was giving birth to  the Son of the Most High, she probably had to squeeze rocks, or bite down on twigs, or something to deal with her birth pangs. And the genius girl cried out, "Woe unto me! For I am very, very screwed!"

And, financially speaking, the girl was correct. But little miracles abound, and the girl did not have to squeeze rocks and bite twigs alone in some cave. She got insurance, and a doctor, and a hospital with clean sheets and a nice nurse who gave her morphine (don't judge). And she gave birth to her firstborn daughter and wrapped her in a hospital blanket and named her Dictator Noelle, because the girl would never forget that fateful Christmas Eve when her life changed forever, and unto her was born the most beautiful, unexpected, terrifying, wonderful gift she could ever receive. Her beautiful Dictator. The one who made her a mommy.

The Birds and the Bees Revisited

When we last left the romantic lives of the Dictator and the Anarchist, things were getting a little out of hand. The Dictator was being avidly pursued by an amorous neighborhood boy stalker. The Anarchist was planning her marriage to an American Girl doll "in a state where that's legal." And I was trying to find the attic so that I could lock them in it for an untold amount of years (read: forever).

Things are looking up. This pile of dolls
is no longer a pile of potential
daughters-in-law.

Flash forward: the Anarchist has stopped trying to wed the cat, the neighborhood boy stalker hasn't been seen in months, and I think that I'm getting close to locating our attic.

Things are looking up.

In fact, the Dictator has stopped associating with boys altogether. Having reached the age where associating with boys is considered "weird," she has successfully found for herself a group of (very tomboyish) girlfriends. She is the token girly girl, a shining pile of pink fluff and sparkle in a sea of jeans, tennis shoes and Minecraft shirts. And she is safely tucked away from the prying eyes of little Romeos. This is good, because while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about my nine-year-old having romantic escapades. I'm not sure at all.

Meanwhile, the Anarchist is gradually moving away from her romantic interest in inanimate objects/nonhumans. Which is good, because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about the grandchildren having plastic limbs/furry cat ears.

But we're not in the clear yet. Because the Dictator is nearing the age where the school starts trying to educate her about the birds and the bees. And we can't have the school doing that because the school also teaches the children Everyday Math.

So:

man parts+lady parts=baby 

might very well become:

man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3.  

And, while I like to consider myself progressive, that just sounds like the work of the devil to me.

Clearly, I've got to find a way to teach the Dictator about the birds and the bees. The perfect way. The good, wholesome, evolved-parent way. The way that will turn her into a self-actualized feminist intellectual who is also totally not interested in sex until she is at least 30.

So I've decided to awkwardly leave a copy of What's Happening to My Body on her bed and hope for the best. Maybe I'll mumble something helpful about being willing to answer any questions she might have. Unless those questions involve the word labia. Or the word scrotum. Because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, it turns out that I am not. I have the mind of a twelve year old boy and I giggle like one every time I hear those words. Every. Single. Time. And I have a feeling that this is neither perfect parenting, nor evolved parenting. So maybe I will just tell her to go to the internet with her questions. That's what Google is for, right?

Okay.

I just thought that one all the way through. And no. I suppose I will not encourage my precious child to Google labia and scrotum. That actually sounds like the Very Worst Idea. It will probably be better if I just raise my eyebrows disapprovingly when she asks these questions and say, "Nice people don't discuss such things in polite company." Or somesuch.

Regardless, I need to come up with something. Fifth grade is fast approaching.


And there's also the Anarchist.

Yesterday, the Anarchist came home from school giddily skipping.

"There's a boy who loves me!" she said. "He sat by me on the bus. He wants to get off the bus with me and walk home with me."

(Aww...so cute!)

One of the Anarchist's multiple suitors.
Note the ominous kissy lips.

"He wants go to snack time with me and go to dinner with me."

(So sweet!)

"And he wants to go to dance class with me. And then he wants to come home and to to bedtime with me!"

Nope. Nope. Nope. That's where Mommy draws the line, dear Anarchist. Because while I like to consider myself fairly progressive, no child of mine will go to bedtime with anyone until she is at least 40, thankyouverymuch.

Why? Because anatomical words still make me squeamish. And because I'm secretly a puritan. And most importantly because man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3. 

THAT'S why.

And don't even think of challenging me, lovies. Because I think I've finally located the attic.

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.