Sit down, Dance Dad

As you may be aware we signed Bee up for dance class. The other kids are taller and seem to have relatives who shoo them into the dance world before they are conceived, but us? We just show up on Saturdays and try not to pee anywhere.

The reason I signed her up is to throw her to "real" authority figures. She generally does what I say at home, sure, but that's because I'm a tyrant nazi mom. Plus I dispense the food. Who would want to get on my bad side?

I run a totalitarian house, see, where people don't get away with much. On the odd occasion I have left her with less willful people, my toddler has become a water-tester, doing things like pretending she can't talk and getting away with chocolate for breakfast. I can't have that. So my goal in dance class is for her to listen to other people - big scary adults with classroom rules.

I'd love to brag on the school and throw a giant high fiver out to my gays who run the place, but then Dance Dad might do some kind of vanity google search and find me. His dorky plaid business socks up to his ankles might wilt from his girl tears and I don't want to get a bill for his organic dry cleaning.

There are four girls in this ballet class. They all wear skirted leotards, most of them pink. Emma is a gentle little swan with ringlets and promise. Another girl and my child snicker a bit, but they do pay attention, and finally, there is Dance Dad and his offspring.


The other parents are sitting outside the classroom. We yarn about hair salons and why the dance building is nine hundred degrees with no fan. But not ole Dance Dad! Oh no! He's going to escort his little princess  - no, he's going to carry his little eye-rolling princess around the dance studio. Oh look! He's taking his turn with the twirl scarves! Now he's showing his little princess how to walk backwards to the bar - um, just like the dance teacher just did! Does he want us to cheer him on? Does he want a Dora sticker?

Look. My kid stared into space for the first ten minutes of class.  I know it's annoying when your 60 bucks flies out the window because your little cherub doesn't exactly want to be there. Yes, I did snap my fingers at mine from the door way because I'm on her shit. Listen or go home, baby!

But twirling your indifferent child around her ballet class? Trying to motivate your privileged three-year-old by stripping down to your socks and sashaying around the room in her place? Not good! Kind of losery!

I'm so sick of the helicopter parenting, people. Don't sacrifice your dignity. If your child doesn't want to dance just take her ass home. Let her fail! Then pour a martini because it's Saturday.



Filed under: Nazi Momming

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