Okay, I’ve had enough! I’m minding my own business, creating this blog, and in no time I find myself getting THAT look. We all know the look I’m talking about. It’s that judgemental expression that comes over people’s faces whenever you tell them that your child is involved in dance.
I ran into a few people that I went to school with (didn’t like them then, don’t like them now). They did the usual, “OMG, I haven’t seen you in soooo long. How have you been?” So blah, blah, blah. I give them the usual polite answers, wishing I had talked my daughter into having lunch somewhere else. Then I get to hear all about how they are on their way to soccer and softaball practice. Their kids just love it. (Wonderful for your kids, now go away) Then comes the dreaded question, “Is your little girl in to sports?”
There it is, I know what’s coming, but I do it anyway and tell them that my daughter dances. Then there it is, THAT look. I can see it in their faces, they both think that all I do is throw money away on silly costumes, slap some make-up on my daughter, and praqnce her around on stage. It’s that look that is normally reserved for pagent moms.
Here’s what I would like to tell them: I didn’t like you in high school and don’t understand why you are talking to me, but since you insist, just wipe that smirk off your face. Yes, my daughter is in dance. At six, she has probably suffered more pulls and strains that your little mini-me has ever thought of. Dance is a very physical activity that makes a lot more cultural sense than chasing a stupid ball or standing in a field waiting for some ball to come to them. It takes dedication (far beyond a once weekly practice), skill (anyone can run after a ball), and grace. Most kids can’t hack it. And by the way, soccer is highly overated and no one likes a soccer mom, softball is the equivilant of watching paint dry, so drop that “You crazy stage mom that dresses her little girl up like a prostitute and throws her out on stage” look from your face and go bother someone else with your sterotypical “stuck in the ’90’s” past times.
I want to say these things, but I don’t want to get thrown out of McDonald’s, so I stew in silence and type away as they leave, wishing that my parents had the foresight to home school me so that I never had to endure speaking to old classmates.