Natalie Whatley

If you’re reading this on Saturday, pray for me, send me some good vibes, well wishes – something, anything, because I’ll be entrenched in what is hands-down the most exhausting, costly day of the year for me. If you’re reading on Sunday, well, I’ve already collapsed and may or may not awaken.  If you see me here again next week, you’ll know I survived.

Before I waltz into my tale of woe, I must first state that I am blessed beyond words to have three physically healthy children. I never take that for granted. (Their mental health is debatable. I’m doing my best, but I don’t always score highly in that department, so…) They’ve tried their hands (and feet) at all sorts of extracurricular activities over the years, but my daughter has gone a steady seven years taking dance lessons.

To seasoned dance parents, I bet I don’t even have to mention what’s happening this weekend. I know some of you are nodding sympathetically while others are thanking their lucky stars those days are behind them.  And I’m sure there are a select few who actually miss it.

Yes, my friends, it’s the highly anticipated (she can’t wait to perform), much dreaded (I have to help her change costumes, hair styles, and make-up many times over and faster than you can say tutu) dance recital.  And this wild tango occurs after spending the two previous consecutive nights rehearsing.

 Jeff enjoys the comforts of home during rehearsals and then gets to sit and see the entire show. Men aren’t allowed in the dressing areas for obvious reasons . . . what I wouldn’t pay to be the daddy, just for that one day. (He can keep the remainder of the year where he toils away to pay for it all.) But, I really don’t mean to complain and there are some deeper thoughts on the subject leaping inside my skull.

As we near the big performance, I always see a hint of mounting frustration with students and teachers alike. The teachers of course want to showcase the growth of their students to the people who tote those kiddos back and forth, spend a small fortune, and wait for hours inside studio. The students:  School is out and most of them are too tired and restless to give a ballet slipper over straight arms and pointed toes.  But somehow, everyone pulls through in the end. I hear the result is spectacular.

When I notice my own little ballerina getting discouraged as she’s pressed to make changes here an there to better the final results, I’m reminded of John Michael Montgomery’s song “Life’s A Dance”. It’s so true.

“Sink or swim you gotta give it a whirl.”

“Life’s a dance you learn as you go, sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. Don’t worry about what you don’t know. Life’s a dance you learn as you go.”

I could learn a lesson from that myself. I, too, spend some time feeling disheartened – mostly over my inability to keep up with the beat of the music life’s radio chooses for me. Following has never been my thing, and leading requires sure footing that I’m not sure I possess. I guess it doesn’t matter because I’m a great swimmer  . . . even if I look like a fish out of water. 

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

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