photo from Pixabay
By Kelli Bowen
Today is dance class picture day. First of all: God Bless all teachers, instructors, and those who actively choose to herd small humans toward a common goal.
If you go around the state, you’ll find children’s dance classes in about every third town. Our town brings a photographer in one week day a year and all afternoon and evening groups of little girls after little girls come in and out of the studio to get their individual and group picture taken. I checked the schedule sheet six times to make sure I knew what time I need to bring Miss A and Miss E to the studio.
Let me set the scene: dozens of bedazzled little girls squawking, twirling, shrieking and whirling. The shrill splattering hum accompanied by outbursts of giggles, the door opening to let a blast of sub-zero air into the room, the occasional authority figure trying to calm the bouncing dance group, and dead-eyed parents wondering where they’d gone wrong. Whoever invented dance picture day is a special kind of masochist.
Apparently, most, if not all, parents didn’t have “fill out dance picture order form” reach the top of their To-Do list in the past week so they hurriedly scratch out how many overpriced buttons they want and check the box indicating if they want $8 retouching services.
Click-flash-click-flash as the swell of little girls keeps flowing through the studio.
I leaned over to another mom: “You know picture day is used as a First World Mom Torture Device.”
She looked back at me with a knowing spark in her dead eyes: “I @#$% HATE picture day.”
Three times I returned to the studio to bring one of my children make-upped, sequined, and a little more cracked-out from lack of sleep and lack of food. Each time I struck up a conversation with another dead-eyed waiting mom. I found that every mom I talked to tonight HATES picture day.
I figure picture day is like childbirth, or hosting family events, or getting a new piercing. While you’re in it, it SUCKS, but afterwards you forget the pain, discomfort and wishing for it to end, and just remember the nice parts of the experience or admire your memento.
Dance picture day is like that. I’ll have a new shiny magnet for my filing cabinet at work, and people will comment how Miss E is looking so grown up now or how cute Miss A is so cute in her sequins.
I’ll smile and forget the chaotic, over-stimulating, slush-covered floor, with sad-eyed parents, with work calls vibrating in my pocket as I hide the feeling of throwing an adult-tantrum, with polite conversation.
But then I’ll catch the knowing eye of another mom and we’ll both decree “I HATE picture day.”
Kelli makes her home in Cass County with her husband, two daughters (11 and 8) and two dogs. She works for a regional seed company by day and tries to be an alright mom, wife, friend and writer by night.
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