Of Tutus and Tap Shoes (Or How I Discovered I Am SOOOOOO Done!)

I took my four-year old to her first dance lesson of the season last Thursday. This year we took a step up from the community centre dance lessons and enrolled her in an actual, for-real dance studio. It’s an introductory ballet & tap class, and the studio is exactly like what I remember from my years and years of dance lessons. There is specific attire required, right down to the brand and model number. So, not just a pink leotard (bodysuit, to you non-dance types) but very specifically a Mondor "true pink" leotard, style # 1645. The tights must be ballerina pink and also microfibre (more expensive than the already expensive traditional Mondor tights – are the studios getting a kickback?) There are also very specific requirements for shoes, and even the "optional" skirt (if worn) must be style #6207.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind this. I expect this. I danced until my teens, so I’m well used to the requirement for specific attire, right down to the brand. Ballet is all about blending in with your fellow dancers, with only your talent and effort to help you stand out from the crowd. That’s the culture of a dance studio and, right or wrong, I must have liked it enough to keep on signing up for ballet (and other dance) lessons year after year.

What got me about this year’s dance lessons was not the studio or the teacher, but my experience in the waiting room. Since the class is only 45 minutes long, I decided to stay in the studio and just wait for my daughter in the waiting room (parents are only allowed to watch on designated days – again, no biggie, it’s a dance thing). I brought my laptop along and was pleased to find an open wireless network near enough that I could get online. I did a little bit of work, and counted the time well-spent.

As an aside, my husband pointed out that my 45 minutes would have been better spent working out at my gym which is (conveniently) located right next door to the dance studio. Uh…yeah. I fed him a line about wanting to be available for the first class, which he didn’t buy, and mentally promised to go to the gym next time. So that’s this week gang…hold me to it!

Anyway, back to the waiting room. I was overwhelmed, completely overwhelmed, by the 4 or so other mothers in the room. Why? They came with their…TODDLERS. Ouch. Toddlers who crawled around EVERYWHERE, including underneath my seat while I was sitting in it (which elicited a hairy eyeball from the mother…hello? How was I in the wrong there, when your under-supervised child crawled under my seat on which I was perched?) One little guy knocked over my coffee mug (mercifully the lid was closed and is waterproof) not once, not twice, but three times (shiny stainless steel fetish maybe?). And another little girl kept trying to play with the little bead toy (you know those abacus-like things that seem to be in every waiting room), only to be pushed out of the way by another little boy. This elicited repeated fits of inarticulate toddler fury, at top volume. A different little girl kept climbing up on her mother’s lap and then sliding down her legs. Of COURSE she ended up falling on her head and then – the deathly quiet pause – the one, two, three caught breaths and – wait for it – WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

It was only when I finally relaxed behind the wheel of my van on the drive home that I realized how completely intolerant I’d been. I mean, after all, it was only 3 years ago when it would have been (actually, was) me in that waiting room, with my older daughter taking the dance class and my now four-year old crawling/toddling around causing loud, obnoxious mischief that I happily ignored in favour of adult conversation. And such conversation! The moms last week were all abuzz with talk of the first day of preschool. One mom wants to find a new preschool for her daughter because the daughter said "I didn’t have a very good day, Mom" after her FIRST. DAY. EVER. I felt like telling her they don’t split the atom until second year preschool, so not to worry about it for now 😉 And another mom, talking about her own daughter’s first day of preschool said, "my husband and I were saying that this is just a preview of what it’s going to be like when she goes away to university." I had to put my head down so they couldn’t see my smile.

You see, I know I was like that just a few years ago. It’s a bit of an oxytocin haze, but I vaguely remember deathly serious conversations about preschool, as if we were at the United Nations brokering a peace deal for the Middle East. Now, with the benefit of a few years’ perspective, I find it kind of cute and yes, annoying. I do see myself in those women, but I’m so glad I’m not there anymore.

When I got home from dance lessons I told the Hubster, point blank, that any biological inklings I might have once had for just one more pregnancy were officially dead. I do love pregnancy and babies, but toddlers…no, I wouldn’t do that a third time.

And that’s the tale of how I discovered that, indeed, I am done. Soooooooooo done!