behind the scenes

M's dance class is usually during the week but she had a make up day this past weekend and since I've never gotten to see her in action I wanted to be the one to go. Little did I know it would resemble some sort of demented popularity/election/who gets the most valentines on Valentine's Day process I endured in middle school.

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.

hear me roar

i'm done being courteous, i say, lips smacking on Saturday night. we are sitting on the couch watching an old Al Pacino movie while M looks at some books. done how?, J says. i'm done worrying if everyone is okay. if i want to take a nap, i'm doing it. if i want to go shopping, i'm doing it. i'm a new woman, dude. a woman who does what she wants.

how is that different from now, he replies. you are kidding me, right? i kill myself with this courtesy shit. up, down, up, down. mommy this, mommy that. i'm done.

you go, girl. he says. it's not like anyone was stopping you besides you, reaching over to tickle me and i bat him away.

what's mommy talking about? M says, looking up. she's just telling us stuff we already knew but she's still figuring out. besides, if the mama isn't happy, nobody's happy. J replies. oh. she says. good mommy, you want a star?

it's starting now, people i say, feeling spry. M, go get your pajamas and put them on. she looks at me in horror. whaaaaatt? talk to your old man, little girl, there's a new sheriff in town and off they go. and the next day I slept in and went shopping alone. without a watch. i am woman.

In cleaner parts, I had the pleasure of reviewing a pretty cool organic soap this month for ParentBloggers. the scrub a dub's over in my other crib.

coming up next: jen's taking a little road trip.

early morning roll call

I stopped by the shelter on the way to my office yesterday. As I am walking towards the entrance I notice a police car parked in the red zone, a cop inside. I stop on my way in.

What's up? I say.
We got a call, but I'm not going in that hellhole without backup, he says.
Backup? Isn't that what the gun is for? Hey, want me to be your backup? (I am almost always overcome with cheekiness in the presence of cops. I'm not entirely proud of it, but it's true).
You do what you want - you choose to work there, I don't, he replied.
And unarmed at that. I say with a grin.

Alrighty then, friend. I'll be inside when you are ready.

A few staff are crowded around the front desk. It's obvious a fight has recently ended. Two guys, one pissed, one hurt. I avoid the pissed one (there are bigger guys around for that) and walk up to the hurt one.

Hey there. Are you ok? Shakes head no. Want to come with me, we can clean up your face. He looks around and nods. We head over to the bathroom. Sit down, I say, and gesture towards the toilet. I grab some paper towels and wet them, a lot of them, and hand them to him to put on the wound on his head. It's a bit early for all of this, yes?

Thanks, he says. You know, I was just minding my own business.

I wasn't here for the fight. But the cops are outside (ahem, waiting for backup) and they'll come sort it out - for what it's worth.

Not much, he says. I nod in agreement. I am so sick of staying here, he says. I am so sick and tired of staying here.

Someone pokes their head in to let us know the cops are inside and want to talk to the guy. Alright, I say. We should go. Just be cool with the cops, if it wasn't your fault, they'll sort it out. Plus the other guy seems pretty pissed, so just stay cool.

I'm cool, he says. Thank you.

I decided to hang around and watch how it unfolded. I feel for the hurt guy. He's a lot smaller than the other guy, and the other guy is still really pissed. He's yelling, swearing, threatening. The hurt guy stays quiet. He's being cool.

I ask one of the guys what happened. He said It's the pissed guy. He's always starting shit.
Did you tell the cops that? I ask, Yes. Good.

Cops like to do cop things alone so they head out with both guys in cuffs and start phoning things in from the car. Without any sound it's still obvious that pissed guy is not making life any easier, so it's fairly easy to assume who's not getting back out of cuffs. After a few moments everyone gets back to whatever there were doing before this happened.

I wrap up the reasons I had stopped in and head back to my car. Pissed guy is sitting in the back of one of the police cars, and hurt guy is nowhere to be seen. I don't stop. As I am driving away I see hurt guy walking down the street away from the shelter. I slow down and roll down my window. Hey, you ok?

I am so sick and tired of this shit, he says. I can't take it anymore. But I'll be ok. I'll see you around.

I hope so. Take care, brother.

And I've wondered how his day has gone ever since.