Dance Mum

I am starting my fourth year as a dance Mum. It has probably taken me this long to really accept what this means. I wish I accepted this part of my life and embraced it with a big bear hug two years ago, it would have made some events less stressful, I would have thrown myself at sequin sewing with more enthusiasm.

There seems to be a bit of a stigma around dance mums. It feels like we have all been swiped with the toddlers and tiaras brush and are seen as pushy, demanding, painting our babies in unnecessary make up and dressing them in hot pants, leading them to the path of eating/body disorders and nothing but sadness when they fail to be accepted into a prestigious dance academy.

Surprise! It’s nothing like that.

There are a stack of dance schools and they all run pretty differently. Some are relaxed, they run basic classes and encourage movement and fun to music. Others focus on ballet while others go more contemporary. Some have big concert gigs and others just let everyone sit around the edge of the hall in the last week to see the final performance. 

Where we go, dance is serious business.  

Even the curls are serious. 

And we love it.

We are not in the competition stream, the girls don’t do the extra classes, but they love it all the same and aspire to be one of those kids.

A few years back, during a jazz dance, Popps had a mini anxiety attack, when the parents were allowed in to see the class dance she took off out the side door and started to run home. She cried and cried, not wanting anyone to look at her. Her dance teacher went on to teach her techniques during the next year to help her cope with ‘people watching’.  Techniques that enabled her to perform at the concert. Skills for life.

Last year we started at a new school that fitted into our schedule more. Concerts became a big deal. A really big deal. The end of year concert is so popular that is sells out a town hall THREE TIMES in one weekend.  That means I am back stage, being a crazy dance mum for days. There are costume changes and hair styling requirements; there were zips breaking and me sewing them up side stage.  I became a hair spray wielding seamstress in one weekend.

I had a lipstick in one pocket and make up remover pads in the other.

I was pretty stressed. I certainly questioned how worthy all this was in the days prior. As I struggled with curling irons and last minute practise classes I wondered if gymnastics could be easier and why didn’t my girls like netball like I did?

And then they performed.

And this mini solo happened. 

Two years after the anxiety attack when she couldn’t perform in front of 12 people, Popps performed solo in front of a few hundred.

We signed up again for 2014, we have new tap shoes, ballet slippers and jazz shoes and I dropped a weeks wages at the dance shop for hip hop clothing and leotards.

Our walls are marked with footprints as handstands are practised. Our kitchen floor is in danger of permanent dents as Immy gets her tapping under control and Popps has already smashed her face and scored a fat lip while trying to teach herself an aerial of some kind.

This year I have it all under control. I can pack a dance bag with my eyes closed and I know the secrets to getting a bun done in five seconds, I can set curls and spray paint shoes between dances.

Dance is our thing. 

We shake our tails.

I am, proudly, a Dance Mum.