When I was pregnant with Caroline and went in for my 20 week sonogram, P and I absolutely knew we wanted to know the sex of our baby. I had already conducted the very scientific Drano crystals test, which told me I was having a girl, but for some reason P wanted more conclusive evidence before he let me order the pink fabric and paint for the nursery.
He just doesn’t have the aptitude for science that I do.
Sure enough, the sonogram revealed that we were having a girl and truth be told, I was more than a little relieved because first of all, I know girls because well, I am a girl, and secondly, because Gulley and I had gone out and bought a darling, pink fur trimmed jacket for the baby based on the results of the Drano test.
And, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start planning Caroline’s future in ballet lessons while she was still in utero.
It’s not that I’m some crazy, obsessed stage mother, it’s just that there is really not much cuter on this earth than little girls in tutus and precious, tiny pink ballet slippers. If y’all think I’m wrong, then just go window shop at the Deck the Walls in your local mall and look at how many different prints are available that feature tiny ballerinas.
Art doesn’t lie.
I couldn’t wait for the day that my daughter could follow in my dancing footsteps and begin lessons of her own. And some of y’all may be thinking “Wow, I didn’t know Big Mama was a dancer!” and actually, I’m not, unless you count a year of lessons when I was three and another year or two when I was 9 or 10. By following in my footsteps, I just meant that there are some cute childhood photos of me in a dance costume. I like to think I’m a pretty good package, but rhythm isn’t so much a part of it.
Well, unless I’ve had a few margaritas and then, I’ve got some moves. Oh yes ma’am.
Finally, last summer I signed Caroline up for ballet lesson 2 days a week for 4 weeks. She really loved it and although she spent the majority of the time just admiring herself in the huge, floorlength mirrors, she did it with impeccable grace and style. I took it as a sign that we were ready for a long term commitment to dance lessons and in the fall, signed her up for the whole year.
What was I thinking? I should have gone to Walmart, paid $9.99 for a full length mirror, put it in her room and she could have stared at herself all day long for free.
And to further prove that I was hypnotized by how adorable she looked in her little pink leotard with those precious, pink ballet slippers, I signed her up for a class that meets Monday afternoons at 4:00, because it makes complete sense to schedule an activity that requires me to force her into Danskin tights during a time of day where she would whine about having to live in a chocolate castle and eat M&M’s and brownies all day long.
We have spent a grueling eight months persevering through dance class. Every Monday she says “Mama, I don’t want to go to dance” and I couldn’t agree more.
Why do we go?
Well, I’ll tell y’all the truth. It’s all about the recital. This is a crafty little dance studio and they schedule the recital for the very end of the year, but they make you pay for your costume and your recital fee at the very beginning of the year, because they have been doing this long enough to know that if they wait until the end of the year to collect that money, no one would do it. So they reel you in while you’re still giddy from buying the tiniest, cutest little tap shoes you’ve ever seen.
A RECITAL! HOW EXCITING! Of course we’ll pay! There’s no way we wouldn’t be a part of the recital!
I cannot tell y’all how tempted I have been to cut my losses and just get the costume, take it home and call it the most expensive game of dress up ever in the history of the world.
This past Monday, Caroline finally revolted to what I’m afraid may be the point of no return. We arrived at dance lessons, I wedged her feet in her almost too small tap shoes (because I refuse to buy a brand new pair of tap shoes for what is, most certainly, the end of her dancing career), took her to the bathroom for the 4th time because nothing makes her need to pee like being encased in tights and a leotard, and then walked her to her classroom where she refused to go in.
SHE REFUSED.
It was a dance mutiny. A ballerina rebellion. A tapdancing coup.
And what’s more, two other little girls from her class noticed that she had staged a walk out and decided to join her in the lobby so they could join arms in solidarity and say ENOUGH. NO MORE DANCING.
I was in a pickle. I mean, honestly, I couldn’t care less about any of it at this point, but it seems like it’s the principle of teaching her that we follow through on commitments and we’ve committed to be in the recital. It’s the same reason I always eat a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids at one sitting. I’ve committed.
I finally convinced her that she needed to go dance and with a flounce of her tutu and a flip of her ponytail, she headed into the studio. With that kind of attitude, it’s no wonder those Drano crystals were so sure she was a girl.
May God have mercy on me.