There’s photographic evidence that I recently attended what has become an annual event for our family. I’ve blocked the memory from my stream of consciousness because my psyche needed time to heal.
Each June I have three days that are far more stressful in my imagination than the actual happenings, but I’m fairly certain the dread alone conjures up a case of post-traumatic-stress disorder. The nightmares of seeing red lipstick smeared on an expensive white costume are starting to decrease, and I’m hoping for a full recovery.
For those wondering what could possibly be so awful, I offer two words: dance recital. I know it sounds like fun, and I’m certain if you’re a member of the audience it’s a sight to behold. What’s not to love about tiny little dancers wearing tutus, and the deer-in-the-headlights look they get when executing that very first performance?
Because I’ve now attended for the fifth year, I know the dancers, instructors, and stage crew work very hard over many months to make it all come together. I’ve also learned that chaos, in the form of bouncy little girls, can be organized, but I’m exhausted after doing it. My involvement is actually pretty small when looking at the big picture, but rehearsal days followed by the real deal threaten my sanity each and every year.
A portion of the stress derives from the fact that it’s a special day in my daughter’s life, and I feel a need to adhere to some standard of dress decorum. More plainly put, I want to look nice too, and it’s no small feat while preparing a young dancer for the rigors of the stage lights. On a really good day, I can leave the house looking semi put-together, with hair done and make-up to boot – not so easily achieved when I have another female to gussy.
When I look back at photos from the day, I’m not sure why I didn’t just get out of bed and go, because that’s exactly how I look at the end of the day. The black eyes have dual origins – I’ve not had much sleep, and my daughter elbowed me in the face as we attempted to put tights on sweaty legs.
One great thing about recital is the camaraderie amongst all the moms in the dressing area. Need a bobby pin, fake eyelash glue, steady hand who can put red lipstick on tiny lips? There’s someone within reach who’s willing to help, or just has a bag of “stuff” that was brought “just in case”.
The best part is when it’s all over. At that point I’m running on sheer adrenalin and a stick of sugar-free gum, but the after-glow is unmistakable. It’s a great moment, as I’m as far away from the next one as I can be. A sizeable smile replaces my haggard look.
I don’t mean to complain, and of course I know how incredibly blessed I am to have a healthy little girl up on the stage. I hope she has a daughter some day, and I get to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. I’ll be there to provide the photographic evidence that she did indeed attend her daughter’s recital.
© 2008 Natalie Whatley
Tags: dance recital, stress