When I grow up I want to be . . . a dancer's mom!

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a dancer.
I grew up to be a dancer's mom.
Sure, I am known to dance in the kitchen with my husband. But that kind of dancing doesn't require costumes. Or makeup. Or practice, practice, practice.

All of my daughters took dance, but Christa is the one who stayed with it the longest. She's finishing her fourth year of dance.

Her studio, Barbara Ellis Studio of Dance, culminates the year with a performance at the Pikes Peak Center. Preparation for the recital involves rehearsal week--hours and hours at the recital hall.

For the past three years, I've volunteered as a room mom. I don't know why. At first, I felt like Christa was too young to just drop off at the door. Now--well, I just find myself saying, "Sure, I'll help."

A room mom is the equivalent of a bouncer, in the sense that I provide crowd control. The main difference between a room mom and a bouncer is that I provide snacks for talkative young dancers--and keep them occupied with games and books and DVDs played on my portable DVD player until it is their turn to perform on center stage.

As a room mom, I've also learned to apply stage makeup. The basic rule is to make young girls look like streetwalkers--heavy, heavy applications of foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner and lipstick. Once they get on stage, it's amazing how the makeup tones down to normal. Off stage, well ... you just squint a lot.

While I'm applying makeup, I give basic instructions: Look down. Look up. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. Pucker.

And then I tell each girl she looks beautiful.

I watch them practice their dances. I hug Christa before she heads to the stage. I take lots of pictures.

It's all part of being a dancer's mom--all part of being Christa's mom.

And I wouldn't miss a minute of it.

Beautifully Imperfect

"There is a kind of beauty in imperfection."

~Conrad Hall, cinematographer

There a times when I can fool myself into believing that I am not a perfectionist.

And then Christa has a school project due--and the truth comes out.

This is why I often let my husband handle such assignments. It's not because I don't want to help Christa with her homework. It's that I don't want to make me and her crazy with my desire to ensure her project is just right.

Christa, bless her relaxed nine-year-old heart, is not a perfectionist. She wants to have--gasp!--fun putting together the covered wagon for her history project. It's not about designing the perfect model. It's about spending time with her dad and brainstorming what materials to use, how to talk him into to letting her use the glue gun, and trying again when the first set of wheels don't turn out.

So I grab my perfectionist-self by the collar and back away. I let them have fun. I admit to occasionally passing by the table with the project handout, reminding my husband and daughter of the due date and requirements.

And, yes, I am the one who discovered that there was a required oral presentation too. I made sure Christa practiced that part of the assignment, but I didn't insist on a say-it-until-it-is-word-perfect presentation.
Thinking Out Loud:If nothing else, motherhood has tempered my perfectionism. I've learned I'm not the perfect mom--and my kiddos still love me. My children aren't perfect--but they are mine and I am proud of them and I love them more and more each day.
I can choose perfection.
Or I can choose love and laughter in the midst of imperfection.
I've learned the value of love and laughter--and that there is beauty in imperfection.