The Dance Mom's Lament

Let’s chat, shall we, about the often misunderstood, frequently ridiculed concept of the dance mom. Please do not even utter the name, Abby Leigh Miller. NOT an acceptable reference in my opinion for any self-respecting dance mom. So, to begin, it is an absolute truth that dance and, in my case, dance and musical theater, are, without a doubt, both sports. We are, of course, speaking of competitive dance and theater. This world in which you find yourself, taking on the so-called “Dance Mom” badge, can be… well… an entirely different world altogether.

Let’s face it — in this sport, unlike say: football, baseball, basketball, volleyball… okay anything with a ball — the rules, the goals, the training, the philosophy and, of course, the skills — are not comparable. Or are they? 

I muse on this comparison, as in dance and theater, it is supposed to be all about the art. We are not concerned with winning — (really ???) —  because everything won in art is subjective and about the love of the craft. Hmm… fellow dance moms: agree or disagree? Cue the evil laugh... Oh, hell no! WE care about winning, and we are all laser-focused on those endless medals and adjudication awards: Platinum, gold, copper and high, high, high silver. The competition IS very, very real. And for a Dance Mom? Well, let’s just say, I would put one of us up against the most demanding, loud and enthusiastic bleacher parent any day!

But, first of all, we don’t sit on bleachers. We sit in uncomfortable, mostly folding chairs, in dark, freezing-cold ballrooms and auditoriums, and an occasional Ag Center. And we sit, and we sit, and we sit, and we sit, and we sit… You get the picture. We sit. That is, until we are running back and forth to the dressing rooms, where we typically are not allowed, but we barge in anyway, because our Diva calls and we are needed! Needed to thread a needle to sew on a glitter star, or to rev up the hot glue gun to re-attach a sequin hat band. Most of the time, we wipe tears of frustration from our child’s incredulous exclamation of: “I completely missed that turn!” A clear bra strap breaks, tights get a run, jazz shoes disappear, and with sweat pouring down, the calmness of a stealth military strike team, and the patience of Job: we soothe, we fix, we conclude in unison with our child — that the girl from Georgia’s version of “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” was, in fact, extraordinarily pitchy.

I am both a dance mom and a theater mom and, yes, those two things often combine into one massive, endless competition of alternating: belting, leaping, tapping and always — the drama. For the parents out there doing both — bless you. I see you.

A few things, though, don’t change much whether you hunker down to watch a rendition of Matilda once again or you see a jazz/tap/lyrical dance set to the music of Little House on the Prairie that then mashes into Lady Gaga without so much as missing a note. You are aware of the required gear, attire and mindset. Number one: the Dream Duffel. Well, it is, in fact, dreamy. Your child could crawl in and go to sleep if need be. It’s large, and it is multi-functional. Imagine, if you will, a Mary Poppins-esque rolling body bag that, when opened, contains a closet, a makeup table, usually a pop-up stool, often a complete screen behind which to change, and most definitely a mirror, a laundry basket, a snack cooler, and another pouch to hold those medals! No self-respecting Dance Mom would even consider entering competition season without one of these in, of course, glitter, sparkle, purple or pink.

Secondly, there are the Dance Moms themselves. Conferring on things like how do we distinguish ourselves in the crowd so our child can see us (yeah, they aren’t actually looking for us while trying to remember the hundred steps of this dance or the other, and also with blinding stage lighting). But it's okay, momma; because we Dance Moms will stick together at all costs. That is, except for when we are cliquing off into our separate camps to criticize the other dance moms or… shhhhhh… mock their children’s talent… or lack thereof. In most cases, we do stick together, though, as there is safety in numbers. And when the secret language of dance descends, and drama unfolds, you will need help to decipher the code and remember what number we are on or rely on other moms to send you 3,000 pictures of your child throughout the day. But please remember, no photography or video of anything happening on the stage, or they will cut you, your child, your whole team, for the rest of time from any kind of participation. We wear our t-shirts touting our schools, we don sequined jackets, or we simply all sit together with handmade signage — screaming for our children at a decibel so loud that the Bolshoi ballet team in Moscow is well aware that we just won the Copper- Bronze medal for our rendition of Swan Lake.  

Did you bring cash? I mean, did you take out the second mortgage on the house for this season? Because you are going to need it. See, it’s not as simple as here’s your uniform, here’s the racket, don’t forget your ball cap —nope nope nope…. NOPE. It’s fees, and dues, tuition and fees, costumes, tights and fees, hair appointments, fittings, fees. There are the late-night orders from Amazon consisting of fake eyelashes in large quantities, clear bra straps, hair gel, hair spray lacquer (??), hair paste, hair ties, bobby pins… oh Lord, there is a lot of hair stuff. Oh, and did I mention fees? This Dance Mom career comes with its own very clear disclaimer: Do not enter this room without Daddy’s gold AMEX card, and don’t come crying to me when your daughter tells you that she can’t dance this weekend because of your $22,476 balance on the dance school account. For shame.

Okay,  back to the make-up and other visually “appealing” contraband you must procure

before you can even think about rolling your dream duffel into the converted ball room they have turned into twelve screened off dressing rooms, a Kona Ice vendor location and the swag and program sales (bring cash) that are all happening simultaneously to your children dancing their hearts out to the grinding sounds of “Don’t Mean a Thing”/ “Play that Funky Music.” No joke. How your brain can form a thought in that din of a cacophony of activity, visuals, and sounds (did you bring cash), I am still trying to figure out.

I digress… before you can roll in there… Please, please, please make sure you have your “Love that Red” by Revlon lipstick. NO! There is no substitute. IT HAS TO BE LOVE THAT RED!!! If your child is seventeen, if your child is three; GET LOVE THAT RED NOW. Oh, and there are probably required team earrings as well, which you will lose fifty times over, but good thing they can sell you another pair. Did you bring cash?

The “Diva’s Lament” is a catchy little Broadway tune that is often seen performed once or twice at a theater competition, in varying levels of talent. It can be phenomenally entertaining or altogether chalkboard-grating, but in all cases, it resonates, as the Diva sings about: “whatever happened to my part.” Listen here, Dance Mom: YOUR part? Well, that one is clear. And make no mistake, it’s some serious business. Your part? Just be there for your child, no matter their level of skill, their sometimes lack of enthusiasm, a whole lot of disrespectful behavior out of them and some completely off-the-chart dramatic moments of sheer selfish insanity and expectations. Just forget it! Be there, nod and smile, and go get that CHICK-FIL-A NOW! That is your part. They will return to their normal selves, as will you, come Monday, when the stage lights go down, and the silence ensues, and you can hear yourself think again. Your neck will need a chiropractor for a few weeks until the next go-round, but again, you know your role. You got the part, Diva! YOU are a Dance Mom.

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Just Ask Her is our YW monthly column and online blog featuring me, Owner and Publisher — Shelly Robertson Birdsong! I look forward to answering your questions, posing my own and answering or finding the answers for us! I will take you to fabulous places in and around Williamson County; share the life of a socialite, dance mom, community gal and, in general, just keep it all real, honest and always southern and gracious. Well, as gracious as one can be, depending on the topic at hand…