A Never-Ending Expense

There should be a sign at the dance studio that reads "Please surrender limbs for payment" because this little hobby is costing me an arm and a leg. Make that an arm and a leg times two. When I signed the girls up for dance lessons it was with the false misunderstanding that the only money I would be forking out would be for the monthly tuition.

Wrong.

If you want your child, make that children, to participate in the recital at the end of the year, you must fork out the recital fee that is not included in the aforementioned monthly tuition. Said recital fee covers the cost of costumes, rental of the facility, and liability insurance, just in case we crazy dance mothers go wild and trash the auditorium. The following items are not included in the recital fee: tights, tickets for we crazy dance mothers and fathers and every single relative in the family over the age of 3, trophies, Olympic-style dance medals, recital t-shirts, professional portraits, and video of the performance. Oh, and you can have your child's hair professionally styled at a local salon, too. We opted out of that one.

Excessive? A bit.

Someone once described the roller coaster of parenthood as the highest highs and the lowest lows. Today, watching my girls dance on stage, was one of those highs. Seeing smiling Kate wave to the audience when the curtain opened, dancing in sync with her classmates, Annie executing multiple ballerina twirls without toppling over, putting her heart and soul into her routine. These are the moments that make my heart sing.

Worth it? Every. single. penny.

The Things I See

She bursts into the dance studio and sings at the top of her lungs, "Hi, Miss Teresa!" She only hears Miss Teresa's words, "Hi, Kate. Put your bag down and get in line." What she doesn't hear is the less-than-enthused tone of the reply, the annoyance in her voice.

But I do.

She needs to be reminded several times to pay attention, follow directions, stay with the group. She doesn't see the exasperated look on the teacher's face.

But I do.

She shows a coveted toy to the group during sharing time. Her words come out disjointed, fragmented. The teacher feigns interest and asks her a question she does not know how to answer. She doesn't see the look of disdain on the teacher's face.

But I do.

She patiently waits her turn to try a new step across the floor. She does it wrong, the entire way. She doesn't notice that the teacher doesn't bother to help her.

But I do.

She is the last one to emerge from the room, no doubt because the contents of her bag must be arranged in a particular order. She doesn't see the impatience in the teacher's hurried movements as she quickly brushes past her.

But I do.

And I wish I didn't.

Quarantine

You do not want to come within a 5-mile radius of my house. It's not pretty, folks. Right now my best friend is a bottle of Lysol that I have obsessively sprayed on virtually every surface in this place in hopes that the vapors will kill off any stray viruses that might have seeped into my body after being vomited on 4 times between 3 children. It's only a matter of time before one of us big people joins the others. Wish us luck.