Praising Pink Flamingos

This photo appeared in a national meme titled “only in Seattle.” It could have been labeled, “only in my neighborhood,” because the pink flamingo car lives in my neighbor’s driveway, a mere three houses away. Really.

The vehicle started out modestly with pink flamingo upholstery. This was followed by a cute innocuous pink bird dangling from the rearview mirror. While certainly a unique car statement, this was nothing new to me. I grew up in L.A. where there is a cultural understanding that “one’s car is one’s castle.”

Months later however, a pink flamingo was temporarily affixed to the roof of the car. The bird soon became a permanent part of the daily décor and was quickly joined by new flock members.

That was before it escalated.

I haven’t seen a car with this much ornamentation since I traveled to Bali. We live on an Island about 5 miles long, so it is not uncommon to see the pink flamingo car and hear chatter about it in the grocery store. I can’t help but smile when I hear the conversation. Yes, the car’s a little weird but it certainly sparks imaginative conversations and it’s our weird.

I’m also a not-so-secret admirer of the species. I admit to stowing a few plastic pink flamingo lawn ornaments in my garage. My husband “won” them in a contest. We have had fun over the years migrating the birds towards unsuspecting neighbors lawns or setting them in our trees to temporarily nest. Flamingos are pure mid-century Americana.

The plastic birds have been around since 1957 when designer Don Featherstone created them. He won a Nobel Prize for Art in 1996 for his modern masterpiece of lawn kitsch. The Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas was the stamp of luxury in the old rat pack days of Hollywood and interest was reignited with flashback scenes in Brad Pitt’s film, Ocean’s 11. The plastic pink flamingo is even the official bird for the city of Madison, Wisconsin. What could be more validating?

Now that the car is complete, the decorating has commenced in my neighbor’s yard. I haven’t heard any complaints yet. Only in Seattle.

Flamingohotelyay (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Carol Lewis Gullstad May 20, 2013
permissionslips1@gmail.com

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Who Wants a Job?

Had to share this hilarious post from my friend Monica Moline, who recently interviewed young candidates for summer work:

“Parents with teens: A few tips for you after hiring a topnotch teenager this week:

1. If your teenager wants a job, do NOT hand deliver their application. Have them deliver it themselves. You can sit in the car and wait.

2. If your teen does deliver it in person, tell them not to bring their boy/girlfriend with them. Especially if such friend is hanging all over them.

3. Do not follow up with the place of business to “check on things” for them. You just put them at the bottom of the list.

4. Make sure your teenager makes eye contact and shakes with a firm grip. Shifty eyes and jello fingers will not get a call back.

5. Have then deliver the job application looking clean and showered. Those who deliver application after working out or wearing too much perfume/cologne will not get a call.

6. Make sure that their application is filled out completely and is legible.

7. If their job application states that they can only work on x, y, and z dates and between a, b, and c times, and only when the moon is full but not when it’s too nice outside, and they have to go to camp, a family reunion, and two other vacations, they’re probably not going to get hired.

Just saying.

I have never seen so many parents applying for jobs for their kids and then checking up on the process, and so many teenagers that are clueless and expect [us] to work around their schedules. I’m giving jobs to the most polite and professional applicants. BTW, I had my top-notch teen [who I hired] ask me how she should dress. I love her! I may have to give her a raise!”

- PermissionSlips, 18 May 2013

Permission to Skip Mother’s Day

I hate Mother’s Day.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the idea of celebrating all that we moms do for our families. I’m glad that on one day each year, children are urged to consider their mothers’ value, and husbands must acknowledge our role in the household machine.

I love flowers and chocolate and the notion that I can take one out of every 365 days off.

I adore my kids’ homemade cards and, when they were younger, teacher-driven art projects. I absolutely treasure my four ladybug paperweights (rocks painted red and black), four beautiful “What My Mother Means to Me” poems paired with watercolor irises, four sunflower pins, four Native American pinch bowls and ceramic kimonos.

I’m glad for the reminder to reach out to my own mother. But also, I’m reminded that I could be a better daughter. I should call more often. I should visit more than once or twice a year. I should try to improve my kids’ connections with her…

Every year, as the big day approaches, my emotions mount. I tear up during Johnson & Johnson commercials, feel overwhelmed in the Walgreen’s cards section (should I go funny or thoughtful this year?) and start to feel regret for my failures as a daughter and a mother.

I hate the pressure that Mother’s Day carries. If we moms only get one day in the sun, it had better be spectacular, right?

I try to envision the warm feeling I will experience on Sunday morning, as my adoring husband and perfectly behaved four children, two large dogs and ginger tabby gather around.

And then, I remember.

Breakfast in bed is always a disaster. I am an early riser, and like to set the household wheels in motion while my energy surges. Laundry, email and writing or editing projects need attention. The sink brims with evidence of the boys’ late-night snacks: cups caked with fruit-smoothie residue, bowls with drying chunks of salsa and knives smeared with peanut butter. The dishwasher must be emptied. The garbage stinks of last night’s salmon dinner.

The dogs are hungry and nudge me for a walk. The cat wants fresh food and water.

The New York Times Style section awaits.

However, if tradition holds, my daughter will saunter into the kitchen when she hears the silverware clanging, and order me back in bed. She will rouse my husband, and, from my bedroom above the kitchen, I will listen to 30 minutes of mayhem as they prepare my “breakfast in bed.”

Of course, I love the thought behind this breakfast, and it is always delivered with love. But in that half-hour confined to my bed, I can’t help considering all the chores left undone, and the mess that awaits below.

Perhaps worst of all, I can’t keep my expectations in check.

I expect my husband to deliver the perfect gift. He is incredibly thoughtful and generous, and I know he would get me anything I wanted. And yet, I believe that if he loves me enough, he should inherently know what I want. He should have been paying attention to my hints. He should be able to put the right words into a card. Right?

Wrong.

I expect the kids to be kind to me, and to each other, all day long. When they were younger, I would often yell, on that most glorious of all Sundays, “Can’t we all just get along?” (Rodney King, RIP.)

With that kind of pressure, who wouldn’t crack?

Yes, dear readers, I fully acknowledge that this is my problem. I should look at the glass half-full. I should appreciate every gesture from my husband and kids. I should value their efforts and know they love me, despite the messes, the fussing and the fighting.

I am working on it.

And so, this year, I chose to give everyone a break on Mother’s Day.

I heard the mountains calling, and decided to grab the dogs and get out of Dodge.

My sweet daughter (who has yet to roll her eyes at me, although I know that day will come soon), asked if she could come along. “I really don’t want to spend Mother’s Day without you,” she pleaded.

I knew the others would be fine. The oldest has work, the second has sports and parties and the third has homework, friends and “car stuff” to occupy them this weekend. My husband can catch up on work emails, watch Mariner’s games and celebrate the holiday with his parents and siblings later on.

I knew that removing myself from the mix would ease the pressure on the men in my life. More importantly, heading for the hills would lower my own expectations for the day.

Right now, on a quiet, calm, Mother’s Day morning, the rain drips steadily from the eves outside my window. Fog lifts slowly from the evergreens. The dogs rest lazily at my feet. I hear the rhythmic breathing of my sleeping 13-year-old. I am savoring a cup of decaf, and will soon enjoy a bowl of yogurt and fruit.

I have no great plans for the day, other than to walk the dogs through the woods, catch up on a few episodes of “Downton Abbey” and dig into the latest book-club selection.

Happy Mother’s Day to all who are, or have, cherished moms. It’s your day, so live it your way.

- Linda Williams Rorem, Mother’s Day, 2013

Mom Down

Mother’s Day is just around the corner and stores are festooned with celebratory banners reminding us to honor all things Momish and to commemorate contributions to family life.  My stay-at-home dad friend, Tom, often proclaims, “Mom is a job description not a gender.” Today, I applaud the Mom of the house, whether it is a she or a he.

The mom-job broadly speaking is to operate the central nervous system of the family unit. The advertising agency for United Parcel Service (UPS) developed a tag-line, “We love logistics.” It is without a doubt that they came up with that line while observing the electromagnetic signals emanating from a mom’s brain.

Nobody knows logistics like a mom.

Our brains hold millions of information bits that may require retrieval at any moment. We need to simultaneously know the time and date of a doctor appointment, the shoe size of our youngest child and the location of the “hidden” ketchup bottle in the refrigerator. We must know when a birthday present needs to be purchased, when a carpool time needs to be swapped and which volunteer spot needs to be filled one month from Friday. We must keep the food-supply and medical-supply chain filled at all times and know the directions to Grandma’s 85^th birthday party in the next state.

When a mom goes down, it is akin to the central air-command server crashing. It is a finely balanced house of cards that collapses when the critical piece is removed. I’ve seen it happen to families and it is not pretty. However, the army of “moms” at-the-ready is a majestic sight to behold.

Last week, I was the “mom down.” My husband had a freak accident that resulted in emergency surgery. He is recovering and on the mend but there were some scary moments. My hats off to the “special forces” that appeared.

1. First Responders. Thank you to my “wingmen.” I called them while following an ambulance. I didn’t explain much, yet asked them to get medical information retrieved and vetted. These moms got back to me within 40 minutes. They pulled favors and people out of meetings to get the important information I needed fast.
2. Meals on Wheels. Food appeared. I have kids at home who were bewildered and upset as I tried to update them from the hospital. A meal appeared that night and each night after. One of our favorite deliveries was from a dad who was concerned about our teenage boys getting fed. Biggest bowl of pasta ever. He must have used 5 pots to prepare.
3. Rapid Transit. My kids got to where they needed to go. Pick-up and delivery service with a smile.
4. Visitors. My husband’s friends provided a steady stream of good cheer at the hospital and at home.
5. Humor. A little levity goes a long way to defuse a tense time. Thank you to all the friends who masked their worried looks and managed to get us laughing.

Even though the mom in this situation was not the injured person, the control tower was taken out of play. My friend told me that when she heard the news she sprung into action knowing there was a mom down in the neighborhood.

Happy Mother’s Day to the moms and dads who pitched in without asking and those who asked how they could pitch in. It was humbling and I am so appreciative. Our family is now “mom up,” with all the extra support.

Carol Lewis Gullstad

May 6, 2013

permissionslips1@gmail.com

 

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Are You There, Margaret? It’s Me.

As she approached her half-century mark, Margaret (not her real name) seemed to have it all. She and her long-term boyfriend shared an apartment in the city, and looked forward to spending more time in their country home as soon as their blended-family nest emptied.

Margaret’s oldest child was doing well at a top-tier university, and her daughter would soon head to an Ivy League college. Margaret enjoyed work at a company she had spent more than 25 years with.

Wanted: New Life

And then, just after her 50^th birthday, everything changed.

Long-festering issues rose to the surface between Margaret and her significant other, and after months, she decided it was time to end the union.

At the same time, her company experienced a period of upheaval and layoffs, and Margaret realized she no longer felt sufficient loyalty or fulfillment in her position. She sought out and soon landed a new, challenging job with a different firm.

Perhaps most striking, once Margaret’s kids departed for school that fall, she, too, left the nest. She moved into a smaller apartment in a different neighborhood where, for the first time in her life, she began living alone. So, at 50, Margaret found herself with a new job, a new home, a new life as an empty nester and soon, quite happily, a new boyfriend. She recently bought a new car, as well.

For many women, these drastic changes would have seemed overwhelming, at best. However, Margaret sailed along, embracing the gusts that propelled her forward. “Maybe each of these big, mid-life changes was easier to manage emotionally because I didn’t have time to dread just one of them or to feel sorry for myself,” she recalls.

Margaret just kept putting one stylish shoe in front of the other.

The good news is that following an extremely tumultuous 50^th year, Margaret is now as happy as ever, and feels optimistic about the infinite possibilities that lie ahead.

Perhaps most important, she has given herself permission to step back and contemplate where she wants to go in life, how she needs to attain her goals, who she wants to spend time with and what makes her content.

“I suddenly faced a whole new life and had to reconstruct what my day, my week, my future looked like,” Margaret says. “I made the decision to wake up every day looking at it all as a new adventure.  And that’s what this past year became for me. I am laughing a lot, I feel fortunate and I’m learning and growing.”

I’ve known Margaret for decades, and watched as she experienced major life events including losing her father and brother, marrying, moving to the suburbs – and later divorcing and returning to the city, raising two stellar kids, surviving layoffs and succeeding at several high-profile jobs.

However, in all that time, I have never seen her drive wane or her kindness harden. She is much more than a survivor, because she never played the victim. Margaret never lets life lead her; she takes the wheel and drives (to quote one of my favorite bands, Incubus).

As she explains, “Life is both long and short. I’ve found that leading it joyfully and authentically has been a choice. As trivial as it sounds, resentment, fear, paralysis, victimhood would just take away from the nice time I could be having instead.”

Margaret serves as a guiding light for women who need to escape unhealthy relationships, worry about being alone, sense they can achieve more in their careers or fear that it’s too late to make changes.

At 51, Margaret is in the prime of her life. I’m excited to see where the next 50 years will take her.

- Linda Williams Rorem, 29 April 2013
To subscribe, email PermissionSlips1@gmail.com

Instagram Lives

My friend excitedly pointed to her phone and said, “I want to show you something. I finally figured out how to take great family photos. I said to my kids,’ Hey how about some Instagram shots?’ They immediately started posing and look what I got!” I perused her snaps and was impressed by the artsy, fun-loving photos.

Whenever I ask my family to pose for pictures I am immediately greeted with grumblings of “Oh, mom.” This is often followed by half-smiley annoying grimaces as I try to capture the “precious moments” of our time together. My friend had clearly developed a great mom-trick for getting reluctant teens to actually enjoy taking photos. Photo-messaging also works great for getting real-time responses.

To wit, just think about the migration of communication in the last few years from the dinosaur era of full-sentence emails to cryptic texting. If you have teens in your lives you know that you will get an immediate reply to a text, but will grow old waiting for a return phone call or email. If you really want a quick reaction, just post a picture. I experimented once with a family member after I got the “silent treatment” from a text and received a reply, “???” If a picture is worth a thousand words, is a question mark worth 500?

While the meaning of life may not be explained through this lens, it did make me ponder the actual user stats for the top social media sites and how our conversations have changed.

Facebook has over 600 million daily users while Twitter has 200 million active users. Our own WordPress host has 74 million blogs. Apparently, we at Permission Slips aren’t the only ones with something to say. However, these impressive numbers are now being dwarfed by the visual communication world. YouTube has 1 billion users with 4 billion views each day. Instagram, launched in October 2010 and recently bought by Facebook, has 100 million active monthly users with 40 million pictures posted daily! No wonder Facebook paid $1 billion for the 18-month-old company in April 2012. Just thinking about this makes me to want to “check-out” not “check-in” on Facebook.

While Pinterest seemed to start with great momentum it may be sputtering with its relatively modest 48.7 million users simply because it is too time consuming to cull through information. It’s so much easier to let others do the legwork and just “Like” something. Facebook has 2.7 million Likes per day and Instagram has 8,500 Likes per second according to Craig Smith, Digital Market Ramblings.

I have a file folder filled with long-hand letters written and received nesting with old “Kodachrome” snapshots. They not only provide great trips down memory lane, but serve as great insight into my younger self and relationships. While I mourn that my kids won’t have this file folder in their drawer, I am trying hard not to be judgmental about how my family communicates with each other. As long as we are communicating in some way, does it really matter how?  For now, I will make peace and look at this as a way to create more choices for my holiday card montage. No more grumpy gatherings of last-chance-before-the-holiday photos. Count me in as the most recent person to download the Instagram app. At least I was 3.8 seconds ago.

Carol Lewis Gullstad

April 22, 2103 permissionslips1gmail.com

 

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Permission to Cry

A few days ago, out of the blue, my 17-year-old son shared a memory from when he was in first grade. He recalled coming out of his room one morning and seeing me on the couch, red-faced and teary-eyed, as the TV showed images of the World Trade Center crumbling and the sky filling with dark smoke.

My son has been reminded of this horrendous act of violence and hatred thousands of times in his relatively short life.  I’m glad he remembers not only that our nation was the victim of terrorism, but also that his mother was moved by the tragedy.

He probably never saw me cry before that morning, and has rarely seen my tears since then.

Parents are supposed to be omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent. We are charged with raising little beings from the womb to the grave (ours or theirs, whichever comes first). We must keep them fed, clothed, housed and loved, and must ensure that they learn to read, write, ride bicycles and get along with others. Our job is to keep them safe and honest, so they can contribute positively to society.

We can’t insulate them from random acts of terrorism, such as yesterday’s bombing during the Boston Marathon.

This morning I saw a psychologist on TV, coaching parents to be the first to share news of tragedies with their kids. Good luck on that. With the prevalence of Smartphones and laptops, our kids usually hear the latest before we do.

We can, however, model how to react to tragedy. How to feel compassion for those affected. How to consider the impact on families, friends and communities. How to donate time or funds to organizations that can make a difference. How to avoid profiling or vilifying certain ethnic or religious groups, and instead wait for the truth to unfold.

Most important, perhaps, we can reveal that in the face of tragedy, we are simultaneously strong and weak, capable of envisioning a better world, and yet shedding real tears over unfathomable cruelty.

We need to show tears, not fear.

Of course, I want my kids to remember where they were and how they reacted when they heard about the events of 4-15-13. However, I also want them to recall how they felt learning that Martin William Richard, while watching the celebrated 26.2-mile race, lost his eight-year-old son, saw his daughter lose a leg and witnessed his wife getting a serious brain injury.

I want my kids to remember how my voice quivered when I told them about that family, and that I hugged them tightly and reminded them how much I love them.

I want to raise kids who feel love for their family and friends, and also feel deeply for the entire human race. I want them to learn and understand poet John Donne’s famous words: “Any man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in Mankind.”

-Linda Williams Rorem, 16 April 2013

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Top 10 Tips for Teens

The teenage years are preprogrammed for rebellion; it’s a time when emerging adults must prove they are distinct beings, separate from their parents. And, it’s a time when middle- and high-schoolers must determine which of their parents’ rules work for them, and which need retooling or complete abandonment.

Not surprisingly, the teenage years are often fraught with friction, as these too-big-for-their-britches youth clash with parents, siblings, teachers and coaches on homework, personal hygiene, laundry, meals, promptness, relationships, illegal substances, curfews, sleep cycles and more.

To make matters worse, many parents are simultaneously dealing with unprecedented stress resulting from loosening reins, worrying about their kids driving or attending parties, trying to save for college, waiting up for late arrivals and, as often is the case, the hormonal surges of peri-menopause.

Last week, I became the proud parent of four teenagers, when my youngest turned 13; my oldest has four months to age 20. To say the least, I’m in the thick of it.

And so, to honor my works-in-progress, their buddies and my quickly-turning-grey and pulling-out-their-hair comrades, I present the top ten tips for teens – written from the teens’ perspective.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know many amazing teenagers who demonstrate none of these behaviors, and most of the time, my own can be wonderful. The following is an amalgamation of several stories I have heard or read, and is intended to be tongue-in-cheek.

1. Eschew hangers and drawers.

Simply dump your clean laundry on your bedroom floor, and operate from a system of piles. If you’re male, select whatever is on top of the pile each day. If the underarm area doesn’t smell too rancid, you’re good to go. If you’re a girl, rummage through the piles for the perfect outfit every morning. This may take five or six tries. Changes are much quicker and more efficient if you don’t have to fold or hang up anything.

2. Never complete homework in advance.

Why waste your time working ahead? We all know deadline pressure is the best motivator. And “deadline” is a loose term. It could mean “sometime after the due date and before semester grades are turned in.”

By the way, remember that screens are crucial during homework time. For focus, try listening to music. Don’t forget to have a movie playing on your laptop and Twitter or Tumblr up on your smartphone. You might even get some homework questions answered that way.

3. Ignore parental recommendations.

If your parents suggest music, clothing, movies, restaurants or hairstyles, press the MUTE button immediately. Later, you can revisit their recommendations. Check with a few friends to see if your parents were on to something. Then, if you follow the advice, make sure your parents know it came from someone else.

4. Avoid outings with parents.

If, by chance, you are free on a weekend night, never, ever go to dinner with your parents. You never know who might see you. If you have no choice but to agree, you can always feign nausea or cramps at the last minute. And if the dinner is unavoidable, be sure to have an exit strategy or excuse ready in case you spot friends or classmates. Locate the exits and bathrooms ahead of time. If you’re put on the spot, anniversaries and birthdays make good excuses.

5. Assure your parents that they are “the strictest.”

Have several examples on hand of parents who permit later bedtimes and curfews, provide larger allowances, ask for less help around the house, and are less nosey and more understanding. Keep in mind that this could backfire, though. (One of my kids, when arguing for a later curfew, said, “All of my friends have gotten speeding tickets or DUIs, and they have later curfews. I have never gotten in trouble, so why do I need to come in so early?” My response: “Do you not understand the principle of cause and effect?”)

6. Remember that curfews can be negotiated.

You’ll have to feel your own parents out on this one; some stress out if you’re a minute late, while others offer a five- to fifteen-minute grace period. No matter what, a quick text five minutes before deadline reading, “Need to deliver some dumb friends who got drunk and can’t drive,” will always buy more time. And, your parents will be happy that you were the smart one.

7. Know that if they leave it, teens will come.

Master all the tricks for when parents go away: leaving windows unlocked, copying and hiding house keys, conjuring up dummy plans to distract your in loci parentis, having friends park a block away – in an effort to foil nosey neighbors. If your parents head out, your friends will find out. Even kids who aren’t your friends will find out. Thanks to Facebook and Twitter, parties can be organized in a flash. One local teen even threw a party when the parents went out for dinner.

8. Leave no trace behind.

Sadly for the kids, most party-throwers and attendees leave a few subtle signs. This includes: empty beer bottles in bushes, furniture slightly askew, water in liquor bottles, small stains on carpets, un-flushed toilets, even small pieces of tape indicating beer-pong boundaries. Don’t underestimate your parents’ prowess in uncovering clues.

9. Live in silence.

Real, live conversations are a thing of the past. When you “talk” to a friend, you’re really exchanging printed words via Facebook, text messages, Instagram, Twitter or the like. Entire relationships have begun, fluorished and ended without one face-to-face conversation. Speed and efficiency are always of the essence in communications. (My own kids have not even set up voice mail functions on their phone.)

10. Keep in mind that it’s all in the delivery.

The following phrases, delivered in earnest (text message is preferred) will undo almost any wrong:

• U WERE RIGHT
• I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO U
• I M SO SORRY
• I <3 U
• I M LUCKY U R MY PARENT

- Linda Williams Rorem, 15 April 2013a
To subscribe, email PermissionSlips1@gmail.com

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Non Parent Perspective

All it took was a little parenting advice by Frank Bruni in the Op-Ed section of the New York Times to light up the paper’s comment section and twitter trail last week. Readers responded with bristling backs to his opinion piece, “A Childless Bystander’s Baffled Hymn.” The ensuing commentary ranged from “Bravo” to “You know nothing.” Readers with negative reactions stated Mr. Bruni’s parenting observations were invalid because he has not raised children.

However, I found his perspective delightful and not at all judgmental. He openly conceded that his experience with kids was limited to being an uncle and that he lacked direct parenting practice. His article concluded:

“So parents: cut yourselves some slack. Take a deep breath. No one false step or one missed call is going to consign your children to an entirely different future. Make sure that they know they’re loved. Make sure that they know their place. And make peace with the fact that you don’t hold all or even most of the cards. There may be a frustrating sense of helplessness in that realization. But there’s a mercy, too.”

What’s not to like about that perspective?

Having raised four kids, I took no offense. Yes, there seems to be an endless stream of books, seminars and on-line forums that proffer parental instruction. There are pediatricians, school counselors and parenting peer groups. There are relatives, neighbors and religious organizations to chime in. However, most of us are eager for advice at all the life-stages of child-rearing. Often this is a rear-view mirror exercise as we seek validation for decisions we have already made. 

Parenting is difficult and humbling. We chase after an ever-moving target. It feels at times that our parenting is “just in time.”  We encounter surprising circumstances that we did not foresee regardless of our preparation.

Delgirl from Lexington, Kentucky, summed up reader feelings most succinctly when she wrote, “We as parents, do the best we can. Please don’t judge us.” Responses such as Delgirl’s may say more about the over-tired stressed state of parents then the article itself.

After all, everyone’s home circumstances are only known to the participants. Mr. Bruni’s article leaned more toward cultural commentary than criticism.

As parents we spend lots of time worrying about “getting it wrong” but there are equally as many chances to “get it right.” Sheer odds are in our favor. Even a coin flip is correct 50% of the time.

My take away from the baffled non-dad was the “mercy rule.” We need not “cling to the possibility of perfection,” we just need to do our best.

Carol Lewis Gullstad

April 8, 2013 permissionslips1@gmail.com

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In Defense of Dance Moms

My daughter and I were catching up on one of her favorite shows last weekend — DVR’d because she can’t watch on weeknights – when her 17-year-old brother sauntered downstairs and joined us.

On screen, a handful of well-dressed, heavily made-up and cleavage-exposed women – apparently in their early 40s – sat on banquettes in a small room, which overlooked a dance studio where their preteen daughters were rehearsing.

Within a minute or two, my son caught quite a few catty, competitive and even downright nasty comments between the women, who were discussing the dancers, the dance teacher and the other moms.

“What is this crap?” my son asked. “And why are you letting Pea watch it?”

“It’s Dance Moms,” Pea and I replied in unison. I went on to explain that the Lifetime show (http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/dance-moms), now in its third season, is instructional because…well…I am a dance mom, too.

However, I’m not at all like Melissa, Kelly, Jill and the other moms. And Pea’s studio is nothing like Abby Lee’s.

At least I hope not.

Being a “dance mom” was never my intention. I didn’t grow up with the benefits of Title IX, which makes more sports accessible to young girls. I ran track, swam and enrolled in a few dance and gymnastics classes, but wished I could have done more.

I wanted Pea to have more opportunities, like her ball-crazed older brothers, so signed her up for every sport imaginable:

- In Tee Ball, at age four, Pea cried at practices, whether or not I stayed to watch. At bat, she cried if people cheered for her, and, if she miraculously managed to knock the ball off the tee, she slowly walked to first base, helmet covering her red eyes. After a few excruciating weeks, I let her drop out. Later, when one of her ex-teammates asked why she had quit, Pea replied, “I didn’t like the hat, I didn’t like the bat and I didn’t like the shirt.” After all, the team uniform wasn’t pink (see Pea scowl, certainly because of her shirt, in the team photo).

- That fall, she gave micro-soccer a try. Again, we saw tears at practice and half-hearted attempts during games. Pea liked talking to her friends on the field, but recoiled if the ball came her way. She refused to let me enlist her the next year. And then, a few weeks ago, she said, “I wish I played soccer.” The nerve.

- At six, she gave basketball a try. In a show of support, her three brothers filed into the gym for the first game. However, it soon became clear that 1) Pea couldn’t catch the ball, 2) she couldn’t pass the ball and 3) she wasn’t strong enough to lift the ball for basket attempts. As the game progressed, the boys started cringing every time a ball headed towards Pea. They never watched another game, and Pea announced it would be her first, last and only season.

- Next came lacrosse, a sport my boys loved. I was thrilled it was available for girls, and thought that Pea might enjoy and excel at it. Sadly, her hand-eye coordination lagged behind her friends’, and she soon gained a healthy fear of hard rubber balls. In fact, it appeared that Pea was praying that balls would not come her way, or that someone else would snag them. Coupled with Seattle’s soggy spring weather, it was a long, painful season.

- The summer swim league was a bit more successful, but when I signed Pea up for a pre-competition team during the school year, she was miserable – primarily because she was always freezing. I understood.

Soon after, Pea asked if she could take tap lessons. She convinced me that she would 1) not cry at practices and 2) stick with it. It wasn’t what I had planned for the girl, but I realized that it wasn’t “about me.”

Pea loved her classes. She certainly wasn’t a prodigy, but she learned quickly and loved every minute. The next fall, she added jazz class to the mix, and a year later, she tried out for, and made, the studio’s competition team.

After years of watching soccer, football, basketball, baseball and lacrosse from the sidelines, my husband and I were shocked by the dance-competition world.

It’s a bit off-putting to see nine-year-olds with false eyelashes, lipstick and provocative costumes, and even worse to see your own daughter – the baby of the family – dressed that way.

However, it quickly became clear she loved dancing in class and on stage, and much preferred creative costumes to Tee Ball t-shirts.

Pea has just completed her third year of competition, and I have embraced the sport.

I appreciate that through dance classes, performances and competitions, Pea has learned confidence and charisma, has built character and courage and has gained moderate success doing something she loves. She dances three hours a day, and she’s happy, healthy and very fit.

We are fortunate that her studio is well-run and the other girls and moms are kind and well-meaning. However, we do see and hear about some awful dance moms from other teams. So, when I watch Dance Moms with Caroline, I remind her that we all have a choice of how involved to get in our kids’ activities, and how to behave when we do so.

- Linda Williams Rorem, 1 April 2013
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