The Ripple Effect

We missed mother-daughter dance class the previous week. Coach taught the group more steps when we were gone so when class started daughter and I were lost.

"Just do what you know," said Coach, in an attempt to get us up to speed. Little did she know I did do what I know and damn I rocked it.

We're dancin'. 

The music is always too fast. We're cruising through the parts we do know and then we arrive at the point of the unknown. Other (normal) moms finish their part when the music stops. Not me. No. I am spinning in place thinking I've got this. During the spin I let one rip. Like full-on ripping denim sounding fart. It's something I know and I'm good at. My body's good at it.

At this point the moms are in a straight line directly to my right. The daughters are in a straight line to my left. My audible and I are the base of this V-shaped disaster with darling daughter, the understanding child of mine, right next to me, hiding her face in her hands. I see a physical ripple of mom heads turning to each other with "did she just do that?" "was that a fart?" "did that just happen?" working its way to the right with Coach at the end. She starts laughing. The daughters, now clearly understanding what happened, are screaming and pretending it stinks.

So I did what anyone should do in this situation. I yell out, "Okay! Now that we have that out of the way, can we learn the next move?!"

The way I see it you should hit any natural disaster head on.

Mother-Daughter Dance, Year Three, Day Three

Everyone who has survived two seasons of mother-daughter dance raise your hand if you're able.


I'll wait.

That's right. Me. I did. My daughter did.

We started Season Three with a bang and by bang I mean she's already rolling her eyes at me, I've already bounced her entire body to the floor off my boobs and I've got a new crowd of moms wondering what. the. hell. is wrong with me. I seriously look like the dancing overbite in Harry & Sally.


We've already blown through one coach...so far. I mean, it's the fourth night tonight, why not? The room is 87 degrees, we have daughters ranging in age from 4 to I think 25 (isn't there a cap?) and mothers of varying abilities to legally wear yoga pants. A couple moms are seasoned dancers which is bad news for the rest of us since doing the splits is still something I will never strive to accomplish.

The assistant coach has figured out my theme song to life is "Shake it Off" and thus plays it on repeat. Unable to help myself, I break into a geeky attempt at shaking mine off while a couple moms whoop at my fist pumps and darling daughter averts her eyes. She has a friend who has since joined her in misery and is also truly embarrassed by my lacking sense of rhythm. But I don't care. I'm like Harry above. Just keep dancing overbite.

Last week we had to jump with the end goal being threefold: 1) kick your heel into your butt, 2) stay in beat (5-6-7-8!) and 3) for heavens sake don't fall down. When I fall down I lose track of where I am which then puts daughter in a tizzy which causes us to giggle which ends with me crossing my legs so I don't leave a puddle.

Coach has also tasked us with practicing our sassy walk. I, of course, have not. Tonight's practice will include more "MOTHER" screams from my partner. It's a good thing "Shake it Off" is played so loudly so no one can hear my expletives.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day 4 - The Boob Bump

I'm improving. Coach says.

Actually, no, it's just that daughter is learning to get out of the way. I only stepped on her teeny little pinky toe once last night. She said it didn't hurt...

That other mom, the one in front of me...she can sway her hips when we do that step-turn-pivot-something. When I do it I feel like something straight out of "Napoleon Dynamite."

We added some parts last night, some parts that require me to 1) hold a beat; 2) do something with my arms; and 3) walk closer to daughter by the time we get back to "1". We have mirrors, it's not like I'm not forced to watch my flailing. Yet still on "5-6-7-8" I marched right over to her, arms opposite everyone else in the room, bumped her with my boobs and she went flying.

I got the giggles and we lost count. I honestly don't know if she hit the deck because I was doubled over laughing too hard and hoping I didn't also let one rip. Now THAT would be awkward.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day One

Daughter jumped in jubilation when I suggested my feet were healthy enough to try dance class. It started tonight and following my first-ever dance class I think it might be worth blogging.

Here goes. First-hand experience, first-time dancer.

Walk in with 7 other moms and various aged daughters. Shortest person there is 2. I envy her perfected outfit. Coach tells us to start stretching. I'm in my tank, running shorts, new running shoes and mouth hanging wide open in fright. These shoes are too wide. They're sticking to the floor. Ah, I can get down there. Hang on...

Okay I'm down. How does Kid make her hands look graceful even when she's stretching? My mouth is still hanging open as I attempt to loosen my fists.

She makes us twist in this contorted position that is supposed to balance my body weight on one knee cap. It doesn't happen. Kid is providing positive reinforcement to get my back foot up so the wrong hand can grab it. I giggle which makes any success at this position even less likely. Coach walks by, I casually comment on bone-on-bone pain at the weight-bearing point and she says it happens with age.

I somehow get out of this position in time to spread my legs farther than they are supposed to while watching Kid point her toes, crawl to the middle and point and laugh at me. I'm wincing in pain thinking about what tomorrow morning will be like if I ever get out of this position. Then Coach says to do splits. What sadistic person thinks I can do the splits at a time like this? I may wet my pants.

We get lined up and begin foot steps. Something about a rocking horse? Cross one foot, step back, step over, don't trip, return to position. What? I stepped on my own toes on this one. Just when I think I have it down, she says switch feet. I stand there unable to move any feet watching all the other moms and that two year old figure it out. I silently swear at all of them.

By now it's 87 in the room, or at least my sweat glands think it is. Am I the only one dripping with sweat in here? We move to jumping. Friend says it's the split soar or something. Coach says it's like jumping a puddle. Kid says point my toes. They're all watching me. I wonder what to do with my mouth - do I let it hang open during these split soars? Where are my hands? Did I just fart?

And that's the end. Forty-five minutes gone in a flash. I do a high-five with Kid, wonder what color my knees will be tomorrow, discuss different shoes with Friend and walk out.

Didn't pee. Didn't shart. Didn't swear out loud. Dance day one: success. Time to ice.