The month of June brings graduations, weddings, and Father’s Day. It is also the month of dance recitals, and for the uninitiated, it can be a time of nostalgia, family fun and excitement.
And horror.
As I sat in the school auditorium where I had sat so many years before, I settled into my seat to watch my granddaughter, the child of my son, who also sat back into his chair. He had no idea what to expect, and I wanted to prepare him.
Then I thought about the times he and his brothers tortured me while we sat watching his sister perform. I thought I’d wait and revel in the sweet revenge I was about to experience.
It seems like only yesterday I was shepherding my youngest daughter to dance class, an exercise is discipline and routine for her; a time of blessed silence for me.
From the time she could walk on her own, every Saturday morning she would bound out to the car, the sound of jiggling of tap shoes and satiny ballet slippers rustling against the dance bag slung over her shoulder. White tights or black leg warmers rolled up inside, they cushioned her water bottle and towels. In winter snows and spring rain, autumn hail and summer heat, we would travel the distance to learn the next step of the many routines she would learn and eventually perform at her “recital.”
Costumes were usually hand made in the beginning, until you progressed into the serious side of dance and performing. Then you were destined to become a bumblebee, Princess (Fairy or Indian, depending on the season) wood nymph or jazz icon. And everywhere the eye could see, the prerequisite for any aspiring ballerina: sequins. These required store bought costumes.
Chubby girls were kept in the back of the lineup: the facts of life are hard on preteen girls, and they learned quickly that to be out in front you have to be slender. In a class predominant with heavier girls, routines became top heavy with hand movements and clapping, while the slender sisters were taught to gyrate and kick high, with hands on hips.
Music in those days was anything from Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and Moonlight Sonata to trendy Bee Gees, Leo Sayer and Air Supply. One was in quite the risqué class if the music was by Madonna. They also got to wear “stage makeup”; in reality, a slathering of red lipstick and blue eye shadow smeared over prepubescent eyelids.
It was on hot sunny Sunday such as this past weekend that it all came back to me. Recitals started at 1:00 pm and ended at 8:00 pm, and all the girls were expected to remain to perform in the finale. Three uninterested brothers and a sister made for a very long day.
Thankfully, this year they were broken up and one set of the school performed at 1pm, while the second class performed at 5:00 pm – each group had their own finale.
As we searched the stage for my son’s daughter, the one of whom he is so proud, I smiled softly to myself with the knowledge of the onslaught of emotions he would be feeling. Groups and solos came and went, and he groaned as each child performed their spot. The stage had been filled for a total of 30 minutes and she had not made an appearance yet.
“Do you have any aspirin?” he whispered.
“Why, do you have a headache?” I answered, innocently.
“No” he said with all seriousness. “I want to overdose.”
"You'll get used to it", I lied.
Maybe.
