RSS Feed (xml)First thing I notice as I sit outside the room in the viewing area is that M is the only one not wearing a little dress. She's got on sweats, J had supervised the dressing, this is what she always wears, he said.
All the other little girls are in little girl dance dresses. Ribbons in their hair. I notice but since M's never once said anything about needing a dress, not having a dress, I figured it was no big deal. One of the other moms sits down next to me. Which one is yours, she says. That one, I point proudly at M, her wild and unruly hair flying everywhere. Oh, she says. No dress then?
Three little words, no big deal but somehow they are. Well, I say, I am never the one to bring her, I had no idea everyone else wore a dress. She's never mentioned it. I suppose she would, she says. That one's mine. Adorned in dress and ribbons. She's cute, her kid.
I come to every class, she says. Are you fucking kidding me, woman? I think and instead I just say I'd love to but I have to work. I want to stupidly elaborate. I work in non profit. People who have no homes. Mmmhmmm, she replies and I look at her. I tell myself I'm going to be blogging this later so bring it on, chick. I bet you drive a gas guzzling SUV.
The class starts and let's just say ballet is never going to be M's thing. But she's having a great time and that's all that matters. After a few minutes the mom says do you practice with her outside of class? As she's talking I watch her kid, she looks like she belongs in some 70's era Maoist state run school, you know, the ones where they force the kids into these camps and work them 10 hours a day? Exactly like those kids. No, I reply. We don't really practice.
We practice every day, she says. Touche, I think and say well, she's only three and a half. (Her kid is obviously even younger but what the hell, I'm starting to get annoyed). Oh, mine just turned three, smug, she is. So I say I figured she was older, seems like wanting to practice every day would be something that might come later but maybe that's just me. My kid prefers you know, to play. If there was the equivalent of a kick in the shins I've just offered it, I'm petty and besides, you've been pissing me off for 10 minutes and if I had a gold star I'd give you one, your kid is so totally better at three year old ballet than mine and she's got a dress on too. That must feel really, really good. You've just won this bullshit competition. Like I said, I'm petty like that.
We don't exchange another word for the rest of the hour and that's just fine with me. But there was one point when a teacher didn't notice immediately that her kid's shoe was off and this woman almost came unglued. She's talking to the teacher through the wall but of course there is no sound. Fix her shoe, fix her shoe, she's agitated and coincidentally within seconds the teacher happens to notice and does. I lean farther in the other direction and wonder why I'm feeling so defensive, why I'd let any of this matter to me at all.
Part of me still stings so when the class is over I say to M I noticed everyone else has on a dancing dress and she says yeah and I so I ask her if she wants one and she says no, that's ok. But when I get home I tell J about the woman and I can't help saying it's worse than a reality show in that viewing room, the competi-mommies are hardcore and he replied I'm usually the only guy there so they all just sit in a pack and leave me alone. But you should have told me about the dresses, I reply and he looks at me sideways but I can't help the urge to make sure M is mothered in all the ways she needs to be and yet at the same time I realize this is more about me or better said more about others than it is about her and I wonder again why I let it matter, even for one minute, what someone I do not know decides to think about the way I parent my kid.
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