“Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Again!”

Last Sunday (06/23/19) I did something I swore up and down I was finished doing for the rest of my life: I was in a dance recital.

Yeah. I know.

Three hours on a Sunday spent in a classroom behind a high school theatre stage waiting for three minutes of actual performance time. More flowers than a funeral parlor. Glitter everywhere. Twelve gazillion small humans in tutus and floofy bows. A whole bunch of stressed out dance teachers. I think the phrase ‘barely controlled chaos’ probably covers it.

The last time I experienced this much downtime backstage at this kind of event, I was nine years old. I had forgotten just how much waiting you do when you are a) small, or b) not a company/dance team/multi-class member. The kiddiewinks had snacks and a movie and coloring books and puzzles and storybooks to entertain them, and plenty of grownups to wrangle them when it was time for their three minutes on stage. The middle-age kids were corralled elsewhere, and the oldest ones were camped out next to the stage with quick access to all their accoutrements, and were self-policing. The four of us adult students were told, “Do whatever, you’re adults,” but instead of hanging out on the theatre loading dock passing around a flask and chain smoking and generally looking like the badasses we are*, we opted for the classroom with the littles.

It was air conditioned.

Apart from our instructor (who is young enough that any of us could be her mother) I am the only childless person in my class. Children seem to have a sort of sixth sense about which adults will be best able to assist them with whatever it is that they feel they need at the time. We had been in the room all of three minutes before one of our cohort (let’s call her M.) began to be assailed from all sides with “Can you please open this for me?” and “Can you please tie this for me?” and “I need the potty!” and in one instance, a detailed account of how she was going to be on stage and that the little girl following her around was her cousin and not her sister though everyone always thought she was her sister and that after the show they were all going out to dinner and… You get the idea. M. claimed that this was because she has a ‘Nana face’ and kids just respond to that. I can’t fault her logic. If I were small, in the absence of my mother, my teacher, and the lady from the studio front office, M. would be the one I’d go to if I couldn’t get the straw in my juice box.

The fact that M. was beset with kiddos started me and another of the ladies (we’ll call her L.) talking about the ability of children to gravitate to the most appropriate adult. L.’s daughter was in the second show of the day and was out watching ours with Dad, Little Brother, and Grandma, so L. was off the hook for kid wrangling for a bit...or so she thought.

“We have a quick-change! Can somebody help?”

And off went L. to get a kiddo out of her sock-hop outfit and into her cowgirl outfit.

After that little interlude, I was standing with L. discussing the fact that none of the children had come to me for anything--a fact I chalked up to my Resting Bitch Face and general unapproachable vibe. (It isn’t intentional, it’s just my face!) I was saying it was unlikely that any of the kiddiewinks would come near me because there were plenty of grownups around who looked far more sympathetic, and that I would absolutely be bypassed in favor of all of them. Famous last words.

“Um, I have to go potty.”

“Me, too.”

Well, all right then.

And that, friends, is how I ended up tip-toeing downstairs with two five-year-olds holding my hands on a quest for the potty. When we got there I asked if either of them needed help with their costumes, having previously heard from some other backstage grownups about the struggle of getting kids into (and out of) these same outfits. One announced that she could do it herself, but her buddy, after trying on her own, requested some assistance. The thing about a lot of little girl dance costumes is that they have these high necks with snaps at the back in a sort of halter/keyhole situation rather than easy-on, easy-off straps that would be, you know, sensible. (Dance costume makers, get your shit together. It’s hard being small and trying to deal with complicated clothing!) Anyway, there I am in a theatre basement bathroom helping a five-year-old who not only isn’t mine, but who I’ve never met before in my life, strip off her top half in order to get her to a point where she can take care of the rest so that she can pee.

AWKWARD.

Necessary, but awkward. Thankfully both of my charges managed to wriggle back into their togs without assistance, so all I had left to do was hold the push-activated water faucet down so they could wash their hands and get them back upstairs so they could watch the rest of Despicable Me.

I was infinitely grateful I only had to take one pair.

In any case, we fabulous grownups finally got our three minutes on stage (second to last, of course), and apart from a sub-par floor, we got through our party piece without any major mishaps. I say ‘major’--I flubbed a couple of times because I was sliding around, but it isn’t really noticeable in the video, so hooray for small miracles?

I’m in no rush to do this again.



*None of us actually smoke, and we’re far too sensible to bring alcohol to something like this. We sent back our Badass Club Member cards years ago.