Yoga Mom Does End-of-School
Do Yogis hoot "get up
and dance, everybody, cause we're all One!" during
dance recitals? My daughter and I have been having a
discussion about this. It turns out that she heard
someone do this during her last dance recital. She
instantly knew it was me.
I couldn't help it. It was late June, the worst parenting month of the year. I say that because the end of school activities mean that June is just as frantic as Christmas, but nobody gets gifts at the end. Well, except for maybe the teachers. As if they need a gift. I think spending the summer away from children should be reward enough. Whereas us worn out, frantic, frazzled, care worn mothers are rewarded with knowing that we get to spend the next two months with our children, 24/7. Oh goodie.
It wasn't just dance recitals. It was science presentations, desperate meetings with school officials who were threatening to throw my son out of school, special programs to thank school volunteers, teachers, guidance counsellors, the janitorial staff, and the guy who nailed up the "do not park here" sign in the staff parking lot. And did I mention the end of term family picnic potlucks? I noticed everyone bought take out this year so I am not the only one feeling stressed. I bought a store made angel food cake, a tub of strawberries, and a can of spray whipping cream. Called it strawberry shortcake. Another mother, who has spent two summers in France taking Cordon Bleu cooking courses, sidled up hopefully and said "Oh, wow, you actually made dessert." She wasn't being sarcastic.
You may ask, why does a supposedly Enlightened Mother complain? Because I can! My yoga instructor tells me that the essence of Buddhism is compassion, and being non judgmental. This means that you shouldn't judge yourself, or your feelings. So if one of those nasty emotions surfaces, don't try to deny or repress. Welcome it. Say, "Fury, you are welcome here." The irony is that it is pretty hard to stay furious when you repeat that to yourself. Bummer, actually, because I really do welcome fury. It's a relief from the overwhelming boredom I feel otherwise.
I was sitting in the auditorium, experiencing excruciating boredom, leg cramps, thirst, and possibly the onset of severe hay fever brought on by exposure to dusty dance halls. I was into my 25th hour of performance watching. I'm just counting the actual performance times; the hours I was forced into some kind of spring loaded concrete bottomed auditorium seat, cheerfully clapping and smiling. I'm NOT counting the hours spent driving to bizarre and far flung towns with names like Pig Swallow where there aren't even any Starbucks. How does it happen that communities with populations of under 100 have enormous recreation complexes with theatre seating for hundreds, when it doesn't appear they can even manage postal delivery? And why do I even have to know they exist? I don't want to have to drive to them. This is why I pulled my kids out of sports!
I'm also not counting the extra hours of waiting in these auditoriums, because each little precious must be dropped off 2 hours early for performance, while the drivers get to sit around and forage for stale coffee. Apparently, it takes that much time for 13 year old girls to put on a dance leotard and mascara. Come to think of it, that may be accurate. My daughter has spent so much time gazing at herself, she's worn out a mirror.
Okay, so during the last performance, I watched countless children parading past, a mind numbing array of 6 year old nymphets improbably dressed as gun molls, Las Vegas dancers, or hip hoppers ready to take out the local convenience store. They almost all danced to songs from the soundtrack of "Hairspray." And while I was welcoming a multitude of feelings that normally only serial killers admit to... something wonderful happened. It came over me like a mantra...
You really can't stop the music; you can't stop the beat.
The well of excitement surged up in me, sweeping away the boredom cynicism fury and hay fever. I suddenly became intensely aware that it is music, yes, music, that joins us all together, black and white, man and woman, Queen Latifah and John Travolta, all, united as one, even if John has to wear a sumo suit so that he looks as fat as the rest of us.
I was overcome with joy and that white light flashed before my eyes, repeatedly, like a strobe at a disco. I tried to stand, but my foot hit the stale coffee container I'd left on the floor and threw me a little off balance. I fell back and the chair snapped me back into place (good thing I'm flexible from yoga). So I threw my energy into my voice and I began singing to the music. Of course, I only know those two lines, "you can't stop the music, you can't stop the beat..." After a while I started improvising.
My daughter was embarrassed. She thinks I've lost it. She is so mortified she says she never, ever, wants to go into dance competitions again. Once again, she and are unified!
And they say there aren't any miracles in the world!
Namaste.
I couldn't help it. It was late June, the worst parenting month of the year. I say that because the end of school activities mean that June is just as frantic as Christmas, but nobody gets gifts at the end. Well, except for maybe the teachers. As if they need a gift. I think spending the summer away from children should be reward enough. Whereas us worn out, frantic, frazzled, care worn mothers are rewarded with knowing that we get to spend the next two months with our children, 24/7. Oh goodie.
It wasn't just dance recitals. It was science presentations, desperate meetings with school officials who were threatening to throw my son out of school, special programs to thank school volunteers, teachers, guidance counsellors, the janitorial staff, and the guy who nailed up the "do not park here" sign in the staff parking lot. And did I mention the end of term family picnic potlucks? I noticed everyone bought take out this year so I am not the only one feeling stressed. I bought a store made angel food cake, a tub of strawberries, and a can of spray whipping cream. Called it strawberry shortcake. Another mother, who has spent two summers in France taking Cordon Bleu cooking courses, sidled up hopefully and said "Oh, wow, you actually made dessert." She wasn't being sarcastic.
You may ask, why does a supposedly Enlightened Mother complain? Because I can! My yoga instructor tells me that the essence of Buddhism is compassion, and being non judgmental. This means that you shouldn't judge yourself, or your feelings. So if one of those nasty emotions surfaces, don't try to deny or repress. Welcome it. Say, "Fury, you are welcome here." The irony is that it is pretty hard to stay furious when you repeat that to yourself. Bummer, actually, because I really do welcome fury. It's a relief from the overwhelming boredom I feel otherwise.
I was sitting in the auditorium, experiencing excruciating boredom, leg cramps, thirst, and possibly the onset of severe hay fever brought on by exposure to dusty dance halls. I was into my 25th hour of performance watching. I'm just counting the actual performance times; the hours I was forced into some kind of spring loaded concrete bottomed auditorium seat, cheerfully clapping and smiling. I'm NOT counting the hours spent driving to bizarre and far flung towns with names like Pig Swallow where there aren't even any Starbucks. How does it happen that communities with populations of under 100 have enormous recreation complexes with theatre seating for hundreds, when it doesn't appear they can even manage postal delivery? And why do I even have to know they exist? I don't want to have to drive to them. This is why I pulled my kids out of sports!
I'm also not counting the extra hours of waiting in these auditoriums, because each little precious must be dropped off 2 hours early for performance, while the drivers get to sit around and forage for stale coffee. Apparently, it takes that much time for 13 year old girls to put on a dance leotard and mascara. Come to think of it, that may be accurate. My daughter has spent so much time gazing at herself, she's worn out a mirror.
Okay, so during the last performance, I watched countless children parading past, a mind numbing array of 6 year old nymphets improbably dressed as gun molls, Las Vegas dancers, or hip hoppers ready to take out the local convenience store. They almost all danced to songs from the soundtrack of "Hairspray." And while I was welcoming a multitude of feelings that normally only serial killers admit to... something wonderful happened. It came over me like a mantra...
You really can't stop the music; you can't stop the beat.
The well of excitement surged up in me, sweeping away the boredom cynicism fury and hay fever. I suddenly became intensely aware that it is music, yes, music, that joins us all together, black and white, man and woman, Queen Latifah and John Travolta, all, united as one, even if John has to wear a sumo suit so that he looks as fat as the rest of us.
I was overcome with joy and that white light flashed before my eyes, repeatedly, like a strobe at a disco. I tried to stand, but my foot hit the stale coffee container I'd left on the floor and threw me a little off balance. I fell back and the chair snapped me back into place (good thing I'm flexible from yoga). So I threw my energy into my voice and I began singing to the music. Of course, I only know those two lines, "you can't stop the music, you can't stop the beat..." After a while I started improvising.
My daughter was embarrassed. She thinks I've lost it. She is so mortified she says she never, ever, wants to go into dance competitions again. Once again, she and are unified!
And they say there aren't any miracles in the world!
Namaste.