I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, REALLY hate the end-of-year dance class extravagance.
That’s about $400 worth of despise:
Starting with $37 a month, including months containing two or fewer classes.
A $50 recital costume.
Having to pay $65 for four tickets to attend the recital (because it was booked at a professional performance space).
A mandate that five-year-olds wear make-up because "the lights will wash them out."
Dinner-time performance scheduled for preschoolers.
Not to mention that every minute of every class since February being entirely focused on "getting it right for recital," which often forced the cajoling of my wee one to actually participate after she lost interest.
Add insult to injury, just for kicks, and pay $18 + $7 shipping and handling for one 5x7 PROFESSIONAL PORTRAIT(TM) of the class (not to mention being told by a puckered-face woman that the pictures are copyrighted so I can't snap the action, too, even after I paid their highway robbery, no-customer-service, prices.) I hate the business model that demands parents herd their kids into a room and pay gobs of money for pictures, sight unseen, to arrive in six to eight weeks.
But the real end of my rope came as I was running around like a crazy person trying (and failing) to find nude-colored tights, a mandate for the dancewear that was not included with the $50 dancewear.
I practically broke down in tears when the husband, trying to be helpful, asked if I'd gone to WAL-MART. "I do NOT spend money at WAL-MART ... I'm NOT breaking THAT principle, too."
"OK ... Ok ...." came his soothing voice over the phone, evidence I'd gone too far; lost my moorings. I'd haplessly fallen over the edge of reason over sheer hose.
Much ado about nothing. Much ado over something that should just be fun. Something that no matter how it is presented, encourages the arts.
It wasn't the tights but my overall failure that I was lamenting.
My failure to find a class that met my desires for less consumerism. My failure to stand up and assert those values anyway. My insistence she continue when her interest waned. All the while feeling the emphasis was on the wrong place - the recital not the art.
My failure continues to kick me when I’m down as I recognize that the trappings were the ONLY part my daughter had any interest in after all these months: Having her picture taken in the dress and the chance at being on a real stage was poking me in the chest with my inability to NOT buck trends.
I knew it would be this way. I knew as they scheduled the circus, I was going to be playing an angry clown. I'm just utterly stunned and shocked by my own rage and stubbornness when it finally came to pass.
Can't just keep my mouth shut and smile. I know when the lights go down and the girls start their performances I will be just as proud as a parent can be.
And then a friend told me something that made it all fit together.
"Let your principles be a guide, not a shackle."
So easy to forget that, isn't it?
When we enslave our "principles" we really run the risk of becoming unprincipled.
I had said that I didn't want THIS to be our experience. And it won't be if I don't let my principles petrify. If I don't shut down and fold my arms to other possibilities.
... I just hope it's the dance that will be the reason she'll want to continue in six to eight weeks (if she chooses to continue) ... not just to see her picture on the wall.
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