Tiny (Feral) Dancer

My daughter ("A") absolutely loves dancing. This was evident literally in utero--where my son ("T") mostly floated around in the womb, doing the occasional roll to get comfy, A wiggled, kicked, jumped, and flipped most of the day and night from as early as 14 weeks. Even being unable to crawl or walk didn't stop her; as an infant, she'd flail her little arms, jiggle her legs, and bounce constantly, especially if there was music playing (her original favorites? Stevie Nicks and Heart, which probably tells you everything you need to know about her personality). So when her original daycare began offering in-school ballet lessons for kids ages 2 and up, we literally counted down the days until she was old enough to enroll.

Enrolling her in dance was a wonderful idea--she was the youngest (and smallest) dancer in the class, but she outshone even the older and more experienced girls. She learned the moves, practiced without prompting at home, and when it came time for her first recital, she stole the show. And I mean that literally--even though she was placed to the far side of stage right, she quickly found her way to center stage, and the other kids just naturally fell into line beside her. She completely hammed it up for the audience, even adding a little twerk in at one point, much to my embarrassment and delight. The joy that radiated off her in that performance was unlike anything I'd ever seen, and I knew she'd found her passion.

The following season, she continued ballet and added hip hop with a new company that started lessons at her daycare, and once again, in the winter recital, she sparkled like a diamond. But then we moved, and the new daycare didn't have an in-school dance program (and she was 100% not even remotely interested in enrolling in the school's basketball program, thankfully).

No problem, she's three, I thought, so I'll enroll her in a dance studio like my mother and grandmother did with me when I was three. The only class available at the nearby studio that didn't require me to miss several hours of work in the middle of the day was a ballet/tap combo class on Thursday evenings. No problem, I would make it work.

Between enrollment and the first day of class, there were about half a dozen emails and phone calls exchanged between me and her instructor with class information, studio policies, rules and expectations, and dress code details. Must be really legit! I thought to myself. Despite having been in dance classes for a year, the new studio's dress code required us to make a special trip to a dancewear outfitter to have her fitted for her proper attire and shoes. It was an exhausting (and expensive) 45 minutes in a humid old building balancing my giant 6-month-old on my hip and trying to keep him entertained while a complete stranger fitted my 3-year-old with leotards, skirts, tights, and the other accoutrement. But she was over the moon, so I tried to enjoy the experience too.

All of that build-up should have been a tip-off to just how big of a pain in the ass this class would turn out to be. Blindly on I charged, reviewing the informational emails and policy packets with my customary legal-minded attention to details. I like rules, and I like following them even more, so I didn't anticipate having any issues with compliance. But from the very first day, I realized I was in big trouble. Some of the highlights:

Rule #1: Dancers must not arrive late to class so as to not disturb the other dancers once the class is underway. The instructor has the discretion to refuse entry to any student arriving late.

Rule #2: Dancers must be properly attired at all times.

Rule #3: Dancers must arrive in their proper attire and may not change in the studio. Further, dance shoes are not to be worn outside the studio, and students must wear coverings over leotards and tights for their safety.

Rule #4: Hair must be worn in a bun, or, if unable to be worn in a bun, hair must be neat and pulled back from the face.

Rule #5: A parent or guardian must be present at the studio at all times during dance classes and be prepared to assist with shoe change between the ballet and tap portions of the class. A viewing window is available outside the studio for parents to watch the class, but parents must not become a distraction to their students.

Rule #6: Dancers participating in the recital must be present at all practices in the month leading up to the recital--failure to attend class without attending a make-up class will result in the removal of the dancer from the recital.

Okay, sounds logical, mostly. Except this is a class for 3- and 4-year-olds. On a weeknight. In the middle of dinner time. Right before bedtime. I think you can see where this is going.

The first week, I diligently arrange my work schedule so that I can pick her up from daycare an hour early. I make sure my husband, R, can pick up the baby so that I can focus my attention on A. I pack all of her items neatly into her dance bag and bring it with me to the daycare so she can change in the private bathroom. Her hair was too short to put into a bun, so I pull it in a half-up ponytail and slick the wispy, crazy baby hairs back with daddy's gel. We arrive 15 minutes early and have plenty of time to use the potty, find the classroom, and meet the teacher. There isn't much room in the hallway across from the viewing window, but I make myself comfortable on the floor with my laptop, peeking in periodically to ensure she's having a good time. Class ends and she saunters out with a huge grin, absolutely thrilled. Great, I think, this is perfect! Until she sees some older kids eating and realizes it's past dinnertime and I didn't bring any snacks. And so she absolutely loses her sh*t. I end up throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her out to the car while she screams and tries to scratch me. Lovely.

Week two, I remember the snacks. Lots of them. Except this time, R can't watch baby T, so he has to come with me. I forget the gel, so A's hair is crazy, but I pull it into a ponytail and life goes on. We make it there a few minutes early, and I settle in on the floor next to T's stroller and pull out my laptop. As the hallway fills with parents, it becomes increasingly stuffy and extremely noisy. T, who is very sensitive to loud noises, begins to cry. Then scream. I close my laptop and pull him out of the stroller, alternating nursing him in my lap on the floor and trying to entertain him. Shoe change is tough because I have to leave T in the stroller in the hall while I change A's shoes, and, predictably, he screams. But we make it to the end of the class, and A is happy with her snacks, and T falls asleep in the car on the way home. I'm equally exhausted, but I survived.

Week three is when things really start to break down. No R again, so running late with T in tow, I grab A from daycare. It's either be late or change at the studio (both of which are against the rules), so I take my chances and decide to change her there. No gel again, but at least I remembered barrettes, so I clip them in to hold back the baby hairs and send her on her way. I give up on trying to sit in the hallway and take T out to the lobby to wait. Half an hour in, the very stern instructor comes out and drops A's barrettes and skirt on the table in front of me, letting me know in a prim, clipped tone that they were a distraction and that she should leave them at home in the future. No problem, we make it through the rest of class with no issues. I'm emotionally exhausted, but otherwise unscathed.

Week four, and I forget the brush and hair tie, so A arrives a few minutes late and with a dandelion-colored puff in waves around her face, but the instructor lets her in. I learn that I've mistakenly sat at the "cool moms" table (who knew there were mean girl moms?) and that I wasn't welcome there, so I meekly removed myself to the corner table and tried to ignore the gossip and snide comments coming from the other table as I desperately tried to keep fussy, tired, and hungry T from losing it for an hour and a half. Things continued to devolve from there.

Weeks five through seven, we barely squeak in at the last minute and I continue to forget hair supplies. A, who has sensory processing disorder (predominately sensory-seeking) and was feeling the strain of three Thursdays in a row with no playground time due to excessive rain. Midway through class, the instructor marches A out into the lobby and declares to the whole room that A will need to leave and come back next week when she's able to behave because she was too hyper and was disrupting the other kids. So, pushing the stroller with one arm and carrying a sobbing, hysterical, heartbroken three-year-old in the other arm, we leave early. The first week, A refuses to eat dinner, cries herself to sleep, and is miserable for the whole rest of the weekend. The following two weeks are better, but she starts to feel bad about herself. I make it a point to talk with her occupational therapist and work with Amelia every day leading up to class to prepare her. We adopt the mantra, Listening Ears, Looking Eyes, and Calm Bodies. My stomach twists with anxiety every time I think of Thursday.

We are able to make it through the next few classes without incident. We arrive late, but the instructor lets her in, and other than a few mid-class potty breaks, everything is fine. But then her strict, stern instructor is out of town for dance competition and a sweet, gentle substitute takes her place--great, A will love her, I think. Er, wrong. A has a meltdown and refuses to stay in class. She shouts at the teacher that she doesn't like her (even though she doesn't even know her) and disrupts the whole class. After carrying her kicking and screaming back into the class twice and trying (and failing) to bribe her to stay by promising her gummy snacks (usually a sure-fire thing), I finally take her home. This happens two more times throughout the next month and a half, including during the "unmissable" weeks of recital preparation.

On the week the strict instructor comes back, I get off work late and A is ten minutes late to class...I forgot to do laundry (and forgot that I'd forgotten), so I didn't realize until it was too late that she had no leotard and tights in her dance bag. A, absorbing my stress, begins throwing a temper tantrum and is screaming at me in front of everyone because she wants her leotard, wants a snack, wants some water, wants to go home, wants her daddy. Wearing street clothes along with her ballet slippers, I shove A into the classroom and plead for the teacher to let her into class anyways. Teach is clearly not happy with me but thankfully doesn't take it out on the kid. Exhausted, embarrassed, and carrying an extremely fussy teething baby, I make my way out to the lobby to wait for shoe change and sit with my head in my hands, on the verge of tears. I want to rage at R for not being able to get home early enough to take T, rage at myself for poor time management and forgetfulness, rage at A for being unreasonable, rage at the mean moms at the table across from me because they had the good sense to bring themselves food, and rage at the preteens at the table behind me for laughing too loudly (yeah, I was at that point). Taking deep, gasping breaths, I try to pull myself together on a day that I was already feeling completely at the end of my rope. I HATE THURSDAYS! I grunt under my breath.

And then a miracle happens. A new mom I've never seen before pulls up a chair next to me and asks if she can bring me some coffee from Dutch Bros. I thank her but decline because I have a hard time taking charity from anyone, especially strangers. She nods, and then laughs a little to herself and says, "Be patient with yourself. Three is absolutely the worst age, but it gets easier. All of it gets easier. So give yourself a break--you're doing a good job."

Wow. What a reminder that God doesn't just tell us to love others, but to love ourselves too, which means being patient with ourselves. And an equally important reminder about the value of going out of your way to be kind to others (which, stay tuned, will be our focus for next month!) because this random stranger totally reoriented my whole day with her kind words.

We continue to go to dance classes. A absolutely loves them, so I don't have the heart to pull her out. I still hate Thursdays. But at least now I try to remember to cut myself a little slack. Besides, all of those rules are BS anyways.