The Dance Class Drag

It's a safe bet that we will not be making any friends at dance class.

This was our second class with this particular group. They've been together for several months, practicing a couple of routines that they'll be performing in the coming weeks. All the little girls have their matching tutus and fairy wands and they all know the choreography. All that is but the new girl and her mom -- that's us. So we're already starting out on the outs.

There are other little things that also set us apart. For example, all the other little girls are dressed head to toe in pink frills. In our last class, Reilly was one of the few in pink. The other girls were in trendy streetwear black and glitz. When she outgrew her old pink and frills, I bought her funky dance attire. Then we switched classes. She is now the only girl in black. In contrast to the others, she looks like a two year old stripper.

Another difference: the other moms are all thin and cute and seemingly have it all together. One mom handed out birthday invitations to the class (sans us) which were hand made. Another mom made Easter treats in little plastic eggs. And another has her hair all neatly blown out and perfectly coifed. These ladies are all smiles and Martha Stewart, pre-prison.

In we came, literally running in five minutes late, dropping baby toys and sippy cups as we went. The quiet of their previously calm studio was shattered by my son doing his high pitched baby whine and the squeak of my stroller wheel saying, "WD 40. WD 40. WD 40," with every rotation. My hair, untethered by a scrunchy, was free and wild and whipping around due to the industrial fan they have blowing to keep the studio cool. And my daughter, in her glitter and glitz, black and silver, sexy toddler garb strutted in, stood in front of the whole class and announced, "I eat birdy poo poo!!"

"No, you do not, Reilly Kate," I lied in a desperate attempt to fool the others into thinking we're just a normal, have-it-all-together family simply having the odd, off day.

"Yes, I do. At the pool. Mama say, 'Eeew, yucky. It's gross.' But I say, 'Isss goooood. Mmmmmm.....'"

"Just get your shoes on, Reilly. They're all waiting for you," I shut her up and temporarily shut her down.

They began the class with stretches. Reilly was stretching with the other girls, trying to imitate the teacher with hands over the head lunges and pointy toed side bends. Then they each sat down, knees bent, soles of the feet pressed together. They bounced their knees up and down, making what the teacher calls a "butterfly." Reilly was digging it. She loves butterflies. I'm thinking, at this point at least, she is really going to like this class.

The teacher then instructed them all to bend over and smell their toes. She tells them this as a way of getting them all to stretch out. All the little frilly pink girls bent over and sniffed and when they came back up said in the sweetest, daintiest, little voices, "Stinky feet!"

Reilly Kate bent over, didn't sniff, but instead lickrf her feet and said, "Mmmm... Smells good. Smell it. I smell it. Smells good."

The entire class, frillies, Marthas, and teacher all looked at her like she was from the planet Gross. And quite possibly, she is.

While they practiced plies, Reilly got bored and threw herself onto her belly in the middle of the room. As she hit the wood floor with a thud, she bellowed, "Sucks!"

The normal reaction of any mother who hears a bad word escape from their child's mouth is to correct the child with a gentle, but firm, "We don't say words like that, honey."

I have learned that "normal" does not pertain to any mothering situation that comes my way. Particularly when it comes to bad words. Last week, we were in the religious section of the video department at Walmart. I was looking at the old Jesus movies (as I've said before, Reilly loves Jesus). Suddenly, unexpectedly, and seemingly out of nowhere, my beloved daughter, the one who is a big Jesus fan, yelled out, "These god damn stickers are always in my way!!!" Then she threw out some stickers that I thought I had hidden in the cart so as to surprise her with them on Easter morning.

I caught the stickers and sweetly, gently, and kindly said to her, "Dear heart, we do not say such things. Taking the name of our lord in vain is a sin. Only say "God" when speaking to him while in prayer."

"Mama say that. Mama say, 'god damn!'" All within earshot, a whole crowded aisle filled with pious Polynesians perusing the Easter movies, were staring straight at me, listening to the entire conversation. So I did whatever any level headed mother in complete moral panic would do. I lied.

"Well, then, I'm going to have to speak with your mother about that. I don't want her saying stuff like that around you if you are going to repeat it. I dislike that kind of nasty talk and will not allow it around me. If it continues, I will refuse to babysit you and then where will your mother be? I suggest you both clean up your mouths." And with that, I hightailed it on outta there.

From this experience I gleaned I must lie in situations like this so as to cover my own potty mouth. Better to lie than to reveal myself a toilet talking mama with no hopes of reforming.

"Socks? No, no. No, Socks, Reilly. We don't wear socks to dance class, silly. We wear tights. You have on tights." I was bailing as fast as I could.

"No socks. SUCKS!! Sucks. Sucks. Sucks, " insisted my clear speaking two year old as she began pounding on the floor with the toes of her tap shoes.

"We don't wear socks in Hawaii. I don't have on socks. No one here has on socks. I didn't even bring you any socks. But if you really, really want some socks, we'll buy you some after class." I yanked her up and whispered in her ear, "Don't say 'sucks,' Reilly. Please don't say it. These other girls won't be your friend if you say 'sucks.'"

Replying in her loudest, most defiant voice, Reilly said, "Mama says "sucks." Not socks. No socks. SUCKS!!!"

There could be no denying my maternity in this crowd. I took the best path available to me at the time. I just said nothing, hung my head in shame, and prayed that she would just let it drop. Eventually, she did. She moved on to picking her nose... and eating it.

What exactly is the proper way of correcting a child whose favorite snack is stored right up her nose? All the experts suggest diversion. I was leary of diverting her attention since the nose picking/booger eating had gotten her away from the "sucks" repetitions. But I knew if I didn't do something, we'd be in for an all you can eat booger extravaganza.

Sadly, motherhood has left me little in the way of intellectually acuity. My clunky thought processes are similar to the whirling emitted from George W's when he's in front of a Coke machine. So many, many choices... hard to choose... what to do next... can't decide... forget Coke... invade another country. I don't have an army, though, so I usually just sit blankly. Basically, I'm about as sharp as a stick of butter these days. So as I sat there, feeblely attempting to devise a diversionary tactic, my booger eating, potty mouthing, hoochy mama toddler comes up to me and says, "I love you soooo much! I make you happy. Are you happy, Mama? I make you happy when I build you a sand castle. I build you a sand castle on the bed."

She was referring to an incident yesterday involving a load of clean clothes that were neatly folded and awaiting a chance for me to put them away. She climbed on my bed, unfolded them, and stacked them up one on the other. She insisted the mound was a sand castle and if you closed your right eye, and looked squinty with the left while cocking your head to one side, you could see the resemblance.

"Yes, Reilly Kate. That sand castle made me very happy. I love you, too."

"And I peed on Mama-Daddy's bed, too!" she added enthusiastically. "I peed all over the bed. Made Mama mad. Made Mama angry. Her yelled. I peed on the bed," she sing-songed as she tapped on over to the teacher who was now asking me if she was wearing a diaper because they had just installed new Pergo flooring and it can't withstand wet messes.

But I cannot blame our lack of friendship possibilities solely on Reilly Kate. No, I had my share in it as well. While the girls were on stage performing their dress rehearsal, us moms all sat together to watch. I noticed one little girl talking almost as much as Reilly, who, as you should know by now, does not shut up (I've actually taken the liberty of carving down most of her ramblings into nice, short, sound bites which actually fit into the story. If I were to quote her word for word, you wouldn't leave my blog for days.) I turned to her mother and with the hope of creating an ally said, "Wow. It's really nice to meet another child who talks nonstop."

With a scowl on her face akin to receiving an oil change as an anniversary gift, she said, "I think that's normal for this age."

Thinking I could still save the situation with some of my infamous self deprecating humor, I continued. "Yeah, right. The rest of the class is quietly following the teacher's direction as our two just yammer away. And not even to each other. Just bathering on and on to no one in particular..." I dropped the rest in light of the daggers she shot my direction.

I had just dug myself a ten foot hole with both my feet in my mouth. Yum. I spent the rest of the practice rehearsal just trying to melt into the background, despite my still whining baby disrupting the mood and making it hard for the frillies to hear the music.

As soon as the practice rehearsal was over, while the frillies were on stage taking their bows, Reilly Kate climbed down and began running to me. I bent down, thinking she was coming to give me a great big hug overcome with excitement in performing on stage. As she got closer, I realized that she wasn't slowing down. She was, in fact, increasing in speed. It didn't look like she was planning on stopping. In fact, it didn't look like she was coming to give me a hug at all. Just as I was straightening up to brace myself for the hit, she tackled me. Hard. Down we went. Both of us. Almost taking Roman and the stroller with us. There I was flat on my back, my child on top of me giggling with sheer delight. It was, on all counts, an excellent tackle.

Maybe we should try football lessons. I bet they'd love her black, glitzy get up. I wonder if they make black helmets with glitter butterflies and rhinestone hearts...