Moments and Memories

Moments and Memories

I was walking down the restaurant's narrow hallway toward the restrooms and was just about to enter the women's facilities when the door swung open, startling me. Filling the open space was a woman who stood about my height, had perfectly coifed bottle-auburn hair and sparkling brown eyes. She was bedecked in head-to-toe matching green, khaki and gold from the floral print shirt to her gold penny loafers. Around her neck were layers of dazzling gold necklaces, some of which swung to her belly, heavy-laden with baubles and pendants and from her ears dangled matching gold earrings.

She was a radiant, stunning vision of precise perfection and I instantly saw my Grandma Faye.

Grandma Faye left this earth almost exactly seven years ago and every year around this time I feel the absence of her with such longing I practically ache with it. I miss the sound of her tick-tock heart and the smell of her - roses. I miss the touch of her tiny hands that were always adorned with beautiful jewels. I miss her laughter and I miss her gentleness.

I stared at this woman in front of me, awash in memories of my Grandma that came rushing at me with such force, I could hardly breathe. I gasped with the sudden onslaught of emotions and the woman looked at me harshly, appearing as startled by my presence as I was by hers. I could feel the tears burning in my eyes and swallowed hard around the huge lump in my throat. She smiled warily.

We were only about six inches from one another and I looked her straight in the eye after taking in her appearance in one sweeping glance. Blinking away the tears in my eyes, I swallowed and said, in a voice that sounded strangely airy, "Oh. Hi. You... uh... startled me. I'm sorry. You just... you just remind me so much of my Grandma that I almost hugged you."

"Poor Grandma," she said as she inched around me, back pressed to the wall, eyes wide.

She dashed off down the hall and, startled by her response, I stepped into the bathroom, shaking off the curious sensation of, "what in the world just happened there???"

I've thought about this experience a lot since it happened several weeks ago. I've wondered what on earth she meant by her odd comeback. I've wondered what she heard me say. I've wondered at my sudden urge to say to her, "Thank you for reminding me of love," but holding back and not saying it. I've wondered what would have happened if I had told her that.

What I've thought about the most, though, is that very visceral experience of my Grandma Faye that was embodied in this stranger. In that brief interlude, she brought to me the body-memory of what it was like to be around a woman whom I've been missing deeply as of late.

I know there are people out there who have caught my eye and with whom I've shared moments of divine beauty because I honored the love that enveloped me in that moment. I've seen people's faces change when I've stepped up and have said, "I want to tell you how beautiful you are," or "I loved hearing your laughter," or "Thank you for your kindness. It meant everything to me today."

At times, people - sometimes complete strangers - have said impulsive things to me like, "You have a beautiful smile," or "What you just said changed my life forever." When this has happened, I've had a moment to pause and realize that all around me are opportunities to connect and to share a beautiful experience. When someone has taken the time to follow their impulses and share with me some kind word or loving feedback, I've been so touched and transformed.

There are times in our lives where people cross our paths and it is our chance to share with them the loving feelings that arose merely from crossing paths with them. It is in the awareness of the beautiful coincidences of crossing paths that the revolutionary moments can happen. Even when I don't realize it's happening, in any moment, I could be changing someone's life for the better by simply being me.

What are you doing with your moments?

© Angie K. Millgate 3/13/10

Bedazzled by Angie K. Millgate
© Angie K. Millgate 2010 All rights reserved.
To view a full-size version of this piece of art, visit angiemillgate.blogspot.com

Hot Dog Memories

I opened the fridge to discover my father had purchased a package of hot dogs. Surprising myself, I let out a whoop! of glee and danced around like a small child. Giggling at my reaction and curious about it because, generally, hot dogs are not my favorite thing to consume, I carried the package to the counter and debated about how I would cook it.

Boil? Brown?

Bar none, if I'm gonna eat a hot dog, browning is my favorite.

So, I went with the browning.

I placed the skillet on the burner and turned on the stove. Relishing in the feeling of the knife slicing into the meat and easefully gliding through, I had a wash of memories flood over me. Grandma Faye is the one who had taught me to do a hot dog this way.

I find myself with tears in my eyes and I am all of a sudden eight years old, standing by her in front of the old fashioned stove, learning to brown hot dogs. Tears running down my face, I listen to the hot dog sizzle against the surface of the heated pan until it's the right time to add Grandma's secret ingredient: just a tiny bit of water which mixes with the juice from the meat and creates a overall, even, glimmering brown color.

I watch the dropplets skitter and dance across the hot surface, creating a symphony of pops and crackles in perfect harmony. And I cry.

I miss my Grandma.

First Day

Tears gather and burn behind my eyelids as I watch my daughter, so young and yet so grown up, walk out onto the strange playground. She has no friends here, yet, in this foreign environment. She looks timid and uncertain of herself and slowly steps, inch by inch, onto the blazing black top of her new school's playground. My baby is venturing out and she is all alone.

Since she started preschool, she has been in the private sector of education. It has been a cocoon of sorts which has been busted open for several reasons - all of which are none of her doing. Although she would never say it, because she trusts me, I imagine she would rather have stayed in her routine at her old school where things were familiar, faces were familiar, where she was queen of the hive. Financially, though, it was too much for her father and so I found the most loving alternative and enrolled her in the Open Classroom.

This forward-thinking school has been around for over 30 years and is still a free, public school. Its only requirement: parents must agree to be in the classroom for three hours every week. That requirement alone is enough to keep the class sizes small and manageable. It also creates a much more intimate and fluid experience. The parents participate. Frequently. Who woulda thought it! They come from all over the valley and beyond - some driving over an hour to get their children to the school. They come because they believe in the theory: with parent involvement, the school is better, the child does better and everyone is happier.

I found myself amongst a group of very friendly parents today. Many dreadlocks and tie-dye shirts to be seen. Free thinkers all around me. It was astounding. I felt like I had gone to an entirely different state. So many artisans and brilliantly creative people surrounding me! I felt like I had found another tribe to which I now fit in and belong.

Because the classrooms are open, parents are able to come and go as they please. They are welcome in the classroom at all times. I stayed the morning and learned about classroom policies. I got to experience the children up close and personal. I got to hear about their summers and was introduced to their personalities. I could clearly decipher who was the queen bee of the sixth grade and I sensed my daughter sizing her up, knowing that that position would have been hers at her old school.

I ached as I watched from afar as she meandered across the playground. I remembered her first day at the old school. A friend found her immediately but she was young then, only six. It happens easier then. Today, at almost eleven years old, she was left alone, the other old bees buzzing about their hive in familiar fashion. The sadness was familiar for me... that feeling of so not belonging and being so alone. I remembered my seemingly endless experiences with that very situation... eight different schools before junior high.

I watched her and swallowed hard, holding tightly to the door so that I didn't rush out and rescue her. I watched as the room mother found her and a few of the other new bees and slowly walked them toward the queen. I watched as my daughter made timid friends with one of the other new girls. I watched as they climbed up on the wall to sit in the shade, chatting quietly and smiling shyly.

It is time for her wings to stretch, certainly. That's what children do when they hit middle school. They begin to stretch and broaden their horizons. They begin to explore new concepts, new ideas, new fads. They become aware of opposite gender in new ways and the ever-present cliques become more evident.

I get that. And my eyes still fill with tears. My baby is growing up and will soon know how to fly on her own without needing any guidance from me. Being a mother is a gut-wrenching, heart-rending experience, at times.

Visceral

Been thinking a lot about "visceral" stuff as of late. With all of the life/death/life up in my face the last week, I have chosen to be conscious about being alive, about what is going on in the guts of me.

My good friend is dying... the above video is in honor of her. According to her quiet reveal to me last night, it should be sometime Wednesday. I feel sad to see her go and oh so happy to have spent so much time with her over the last week. I feel blessed.

As I got ready to type this post, the Carpenters came on the stereo with Rainy Days and Mondays. It is one of my most favorite songs from my childhood. It comes from the album where Richard and Karen are at the beach, she is sitting on a rock with a long white dress. It once was my mother's favorite album. She would play it loud on our old stereo which was taller than I and as long as the living room wall. I would dance in front of the speakers, feeling the music seep into my bones and my viscera.

This morning, when the first notes of the song floated on the air, they were tainted with the scent of PlayDoh. I could suddenly feel the cold smoothness in my hands and taste the strangely sweet, salty taste of the magical concoction. Suddenly, I was three and carefree, sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, dangling my feet and relishing in the simple pleasure of being alive. From the depths of my gut, this memory rose and I breathed it in, feeling grateful that I am, indeed, alive. So very much alive!

TT - "Hot Summer Nights"

The year was 1978. I was ten years old and feeling like a grown up girl as me and my friends piled into the back of our Pinto station wagon. It was dark outside, truly nighttime and we were going to the movies! Just us girls! The plan was to be dropped off at the Villa Theater - which was soon to be the last of the real theaters with only one HUGE screen and a seating for 1300 people. This theater was magical, complete with a rich velvet curtain that draped the screen until the commercials started for the concessions stands with the marching ice cream on a stick dude leading the other treats around. Sadly, they have turned that magnificient place into Adib's Rug Gallery. But I digress...

The year was 1978. I was ten years old and feeling like a grown up girl as we climbed into the back of our Pinto station wagon. I had delayed my birthday party this year, specifically for this incredible event. The energy of the group of girls caused a giddy headiness to fill the car and the anticipation was agonizing. We were going on our first official "Girls Only" outing to see a double feature with the hottest hunk to hit the screen, John Travolta. Someone had gotten wise about Saturday Night Fever, had edited it to a PG rating and had re-released it with Grease. We were breathless with the restless waiting.

We piled out of the car, adjusting our clothes and feeling awed by the dazzling marquee and blinking lights. We sat beside one another holding hands and swooning over how handsome John Travolta was in Saturday Night Fever. However, then they started Grease and our worlds exploded in song and dance. We bounced our legs and swayed with the songs, surely creating a distraction for anyone behind us. But, we didn't care. We were ten! We were there! And we were in love with the entire experience.

We tumbled out of the theater together, tripping to the car and climbed inside. With all the windows rolled down we sang all the way home at the top of our lungs...

Summer lovin' had me a blast!

Summer lovin' happened so fast...

I am all grown up now and miss the days when I was ten and all seemed right with the world. When I could climb into the back of the station wagon with a bunch of my girl friends and have not a care in the world. Even now, when I hear the first deep notes of that song and the drums, I stop and smile. I am young again, with the air going through my hair.

Now, when I listen to it, though, it never escapes my noticing how differently Danny and Sandy approached the whole scene. Danny enticing his friends with hints at lurid details, "We made out under the dock and she was good, if you know what I mean." Down-dooby-doo dooby-doo dooby-dooby-dooby Down-dooby-doo dooby-doo dooby-dooby-dooby Sandy being all sweet and doe-eyed about "strolling and drinking lemonade and staying out until ten o'clock." Down-dooby-doo dooby-doo dooby-dooby-dooby Down-dooby-doo dooby-doo dooby-dooby-dooby

Tell me more! Tell me more!

It never ceases to amaze me how differently men and women approach matters of the heart vs. matter of sex. My former husband just recently shared a joke with me that seems appropriate here: Women think they are so smart. They fake an orgasm to have a relationship. Thing is, men fake entire relationships to have an orgasm.

And, there, you have it. We are so very different. And that becomes really apparent when the temperatures rise and the stories begin and Summer dreams, ripped at the seams. Bu-hut... OH! Those Su-um-merrrr Niiii---hights.

Going the Distance

Where I now live is a significant distance from where I work. With no traffic, it takes over a half hour for me to get to the office. During rush hour, it can take up to an hour. The most interesting aspect of this is that, each day, I travel the entire width and breadth of the city in which I spent my teenage years. From the southwest corner to the northeast corner, from city limit to city limit.

I find myself straying from the beaten path on most mornings. Mostly as self-defense because practically every main road is currently under construction. (I am truly surprised there are not more incidences of road rage here in Utah.) Being that I learned to drive on the streets of this city and had a propensity, back then, to seek out the least vehicularly-populated roadways, I am familiar with the side streets. The idea of taking the side streets is so that I can wend my way toward my destination without the bother of having to stop every 2.9 seconds. As I meander under the (probably false) perception that I am making better time than I had been making on the main roads, I do a lot of rubber-necking. The bonus is there is a lot to see.

This city, West Valley City, Utah, was not a city when we moved into the area. It was loosely known as Granger until a group of little nearby towns decided to combine forces and incorporate into a city in 1980, just one year after we settled into the fourteenth and last house of my youth. The area is filled to the brim with people now. Back then, there were more open spaces, farms and the such. Many of the houses in the older part of this city are all-brick ramblers. Some of the neighborhoods exhibit signs of neglect and uncaring. In the obviously financially poorer areas of the city, the houses are beginning to look decrepit.

I have memories nestled in many of these houses I pass on my jaunt to work. There, that one... that's where we had the sleep over and did "light as a feather, stiff as a board" and freaked ourselves out. That is the home of my first highschool boyfriend. One of my best friends from junior high lived there. That used to be the most filthy home on the block - food all over the counters and tabletop, laundry on the couch, inches of garbage on the floors. The cute boy lived there. That house was where I met my first crush. I slept mostly-naked in my late teens in a bed in that house with my first crush, even though I was still a virgin. There is another best friend's house. The sexiest place in that house is in the television pit, especially on Thursday nights. I remember lying out under the stars with my best guy friend, falling in love, learning to kiss and listening to the doves in the mini-aviary in the backyard of that house there. And, there, that house? THAT house was MY home.

So many memories. I feel sad now, though, as I drive along these streets that I used to know so well. Many of those same houses, especially the much-loved home of my teenage years, are completely neglected and falling apart. Some of the houses have yards full of garbage and weeds. Others have so much junk piled in the rooms that you can see the mountains through the torn curtains. Other houses have blinds hanging in the windows, all skewed, bent and threatening to fall from the rods. I wonder... what happens that all these people have seemingly just stopped caring?

Yes!

(video added so you can download and have the actual song to which I refer later as the background music for your reading pleasure.)

It was 1988. I was an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, an active participator in the local Young Adults Ward and the Ward Physical Fitness Director. I had actually come up with the idea of combining singles mingling with singles moving. It was a kick ass dang good idea and the Young Adults (aged 18-30) all jumped on the bandwagon, leg-warmers, headbands and all.

I was excited to lead the aerobics class; dancing and aerobics being my passion back then. I was also excited to have my recently-returned missionary boyfriend of almost-three-years being front and center each and every night that I taught class. We met Mon, Wed, Fri at 6:00am for an hour and Tue and Thu evenings at 8:00pm for an hour. He was there every night, egging me on to shake my ass really get the class enthused and moving.

There were elaborately choreographed numbers where everyone got to learn the dance and we used them time after time so that even the most clumsiest of aerobicizers could get a grip. There were grand traveling numbers that got us bouncing around the entire carpeted gymnasium/basketball court/auditorium. Circle-up numbers where we did a Hokey-Pokey sort of performance. And lots of laughter.

For an hour each day, we bounced around that gym laughing and bumping into each other and getting our bodies moving. I led my friends through movements that got their heart rates up, their flirtation levels up and their eyes up. We interacted. We danced. We hopped. We jumped. We breathed.

I picked music that inspired me to move and bounce and laugh. Said boyfriend helped me mix and compile the most fucking totally awesome hour-long tape of music that would absolutely not allow anyone to stop moving. I picked one particular song, "Yes!" by Mary Clayton from the ever-popular-most-raved-about soundtrack of that time, Dirty Dancing. I didn't really listen to the words of the song (big mistake). All I knew was that that song got me bouncing about instantly.

So, one Thursday night, we were all revved up and dancing about the gymnasium as "Yes!" thundered out of the boombox behind me. Laughter was bouncing off the walls as much as we were. There was not a still body anywhere to be seen. Didn't matter how fat or skinny, how old or young, male or female, the entire room was packed with moving people. Boyfriend, front and center, was casting inviting grins my way and all was right with the world.

In walks three white-haired Suits looking all patriarchal and proper. When I felt the invasion, I glanced at them long enough to see that they stood at the entryway, each with one foot in and one foot out, jaws agape, faces white. They each wore looks of horror. I felt the stares of the Suits more than I saw them and I watched as, one by one, the jubiliant exercisers stopped moving. The high energy of the gym was sucked out of the space instantaneously.

The middle one, Stake President SoAndSo pointed dramatically to my best friend who happened to also be the Relief Society President of our ward. Then he pointed militarily at the hallway, his silent communications saying, "You! Get your ass to my office now." She moved timidly toward the door, following the Suits out the door. We all looked at each other, uncertain as to the problem and, yet, reluctant to begin bouncing about again. I suddenly became aware of the words of the chorus blasting through the air...

Yes!
We're gonna fall in love
And it feels so right
Yes!
We're gonna make love
It's gonna be tonight
I can just imagine
Huggin and teasin and
Lovin and squeezin all night

SHIT! Shoot.

I turned the music down thinking that maybe it had been just because I had it up louder than was proper for the church gymnasium, yet knowing it was the actual words that had bothered them. Especially that one certain line...

The sucking of our energy was plainly visible and I realized that I had lost the entire group. I felt deflated. The group unenthusiastically began moving again, their moves decidedly less happy and more constrained. Half-heartedly I finished out the rest of the session, so very grateful when the cool-down music started. I imagined I heard a sigh of relief sweep through the group.

Two days later I was called into the Young Adult Ward Bishop's office. Apparenlty, he had been called into the Stake President's office over the Thursday Night incident. Apparently, the music I had chosen was inappropriate. Apparently, I was being held responsible for the entire Young Adult Ward's moral behavior. Apparently, my choice of bouncy music was not at all appropriate, let alone in the church, and especially let alone broadcasting it to a group of impressionable young adults (again, aged 18-30).

I was admonished to be more thoughtful about what I allowed into my presence because music such as that would surely lead to my immoral fall from grace. (Little did he know I was well on my way there already, music or no.) Then, I was released from my position.

I still smile and bounce when I hear the song.

The Prayer

I was just thinking of my Grandma Faye. I have been doing that a lot lately, missing the smell of roses and the color pink, missing the gentle click-click-click of her heart. She died a few years ago and sometimes I just ache with the longing to feel her gentle hands on mine. Today is one of those days.

As I worked, I saw images of her in my mind's eye. I heard her laughter and her sense of humor that got a tad raunchy as she aged beyond her pristine, perfectness. I remembered how it would feel when she held me. I remembered the smell of her house in the morning... bacon... coffee... I remembered the feel of sugar cookie dough under my hands. I remembered the sound of her voice singing triumphantly along with the Tabernacle choir or Broadway soundtracks.

I was really missing her.

Then I stood up to cross the room, all misty-eyed with missing her. As I did, my internet radio started a new song... The Prayer sung by Josh Groban and Charlotte Church.

It was the song that Mom and I chose to play at a private viewing, as the family gathered around to say their fond farewells, before we closed the casket.

Perhaps Grandma is thinking of me too today.

Because

So I am driving myself to work this morning, enjoying the beautiful sunrise and my music, which was full blast so I could sing along to my heart's content. I was in my own world, happy and content. I am singing a song that has really captured my attention. I am sure you have heard it, Kelly Clarkson's Because of You...

Then, suddenly, what's this?!?! I was crying! A big sobbing, choking cry with tears streaming down both my cheeks in single, icy-cold, stinging rivulets. There, in the middle of my happiness and contentment, I find myself sobbing.

Because of you,

I never stray too

far from the sidewalk

Because of you

I learned to play

on the safe side

so I don't get hurt

Because of you

I find it hard

to trust not only me,

but everyone around me

Because of you

I am afraid....

I am singing it at the top of my lungs in a croaky, choked voice, gasping for breath and wondering where in the hell this sudden burst of grieving came from. I see my former husband's face in my mind's eye and I scowl. How long does this have to go on?

And, I hear the answer... As long as you want it to, Angie. As long as you let it.

Yes, well. I am just plain fucking sick of it. For ten years I have squandered my life away, hiding in the shadows to not be seen and only coming out for short periods of time before I retreat. I have spent those years doing every possible New Agey healing thing. I have sung mantras. I have done affirmations. I have done therapy. I have meditated. All of it.

And I have discovered, through all of that, that no amount of telling myself "I am this. I am that," helps or changes anything when I am telling myself something that is the exact opposite of what I really am.

I have been saying, "I am healthy. I am whole. I am happy. I am at peace."

When, what I really am is... Unhealthy. Broken. Sad. Haunted.

And I feel angry about that.

You can tell me I chose into the situation. Go ahead. Tell me!

I know I did!!!

I chose into it. And I am choosing to carry it on. You can tell me that too.

I am scared to go forward and I am scared to stay here. And, right now, both of those fears are equal in intensity.

I realize there comes a time when one has took look at their life and take responsibility for what they have created. Yeah. I get that. And I have done it. See me taking full responsibility for creating this situation, for choosing a partner that served me by teaching me to stand up for myself in the most brutal of ways. See me taking full responsibility for being here ten years later, wondering what the hell I am doing with my life. See me taking full responsibility for the loneliness and sadness and confusion and emptiness I live with now. See me taking full responsibility for hiding behind this darkness so that I do not have to be who I am really meant to be. See me taking full responsibility for falling short on my own personal expectations and for being less than myself. See me taking full responsibility for the anger that boils inside me and the deep, deep longing to strike out, strike back, strike hard. To scream and wail and be unenlightened. To blame and to point fingers and to make it all about someone other than me. See me yearn to break something and mangle it and shatter it and throw it, in the hopes that that broken something will absorb my brokenness and the pain will evaporate. See me taking full responsibility for being an adult and going forward day by day, despite how much I want to not.

And see me take full responsibility for crying this morning over something that still hurts me way down deep in my belly.

And then... see me cry some more.

Shadows of my Mind...

"Shadows" -Angie Millgate 2008

In the shadows of my mind I see remnants of a heart that once beat strongly, soundly and wholly for you. The darkness there holds onto the laughter and the loving and spews it forth in the night when I sleep... vulnerable, open and unguarded. The memories walk out from the darkness of the shadows in my mind into the light of my dreams where they taunt me and remind me of what once was and will never be again.

"Queen" - Angie Millgate 2008

If I look again, I see shelves that have been unlit for lifetimes. Times where I gave up a part of me to please others. Times where I surrendered my love for the goodness of the kingdom. Times where I fought as the warrior queen for her people, with her people. Times where they came to me to be healed and to be loved, to be accepted and to be sheltered. Times of victories lived long ago and forgotten in the Now.

"Sweeping Darkness" -Angie Millgate 2008

And there. Deep, deep in the shadows. So far back and hidden and cowering in the corner behind the darkest shelf of dark thoughts. There lies the memories of pain so intense and heartbreak so disbelievable. There are the aches of bruised bones and burning eyes. The toxic fears brought on in a violent sweep through the life of one too gentle to face such horrors. There is where the shivering begins and intensifies until it rattles me to the ends of who I am. The memories that haunt me on dark, windy roads and wait to accost me in moments I least expect an invasion. It is all stored there, that which I think is long gone but is not. It is just there... waiting... seething... reaching toward the light of my present mind... haunting me.

"Sacred Light" -Angie Millgate 2008

And because the shadows of my mind only harbor that which once was, which no longer serves me other than to remind me that I have lived lifetimes of experiences, I bring my focus back to the surface where there is light and where there is Now. And begin anew in the light, knowing that it is there where I live. And that, although those demons and dark shelves lurk there in the distance, in the shadows, it is here in the open, in the Now, in the present that I live.

SR 111

I just wrote an entire piece of a really horrible memory I just lived through and was editing it for gramatical errors. In doing so, I accidentally selected the entire piece and deleted it. Gone. Totally gone.

Damn it.

Apparently this is not one that was meant to be read...

Tradition

Our family was started at a little local restaurant unlike any I have ever visited anywhere else. It is a proper place which serves a five-course meal of English fare. My father took my mother there on one of their earliest dates - a fancy affair of expensive food and ballroom dancing. They were dressed to the nines and she felt like a princess. She was impressed.

This little restaurant, The Five Alls, became a part of our family tradition, a legacy that carried on through their marriage - all "important" events being celebrated there - and on into the lives of their children as we have grown. Upon their divorce, my mother became sickened at the idea of attending this place that had become a part of her life. It was as if dad got custody of the restaurant and mom was choosing to give up her visitation rights.

For a long time, she would not even consider dining there. We tried to drag her there but every time we even mentioned it, she resolutely put her foot down saying, "Absolutely not. I will not go. Too many memories there and it makes me sad." So we left it at that.

Five years later, without telling her where we were going, we made reservations and picked her up for her birthday. She was hesitant as we walked up the cobbled sidewalk toward the door, a visible sheen of perspiration standing out on her forehead. Once we were inside, though, the warmth and aroma ensconced her and she eased into her own experience of the place for the first time in her life.

The years have brought us to this door many a time for birthdays and wedding parties and for those times that we have just wanted to enjoy an excellent meal. Tonight we will celebrate Mom's birthday there and this time, I'm sure, she will dance her way up the sidewalk.

Dancing

As a little girl, I longed to be a dancer. I loved the lithe beauty of the prima ballerinas and, although it was genetically impossible for it to happen, I longed to develop into the emaciated, willowy forms required to land a spot in the corps of Ballet West. As I grew, I realized that my short and curvaceous form would never make it into the realms of what was required. Therefore, I found other forms of dance with which I fell in love.
There were classes several times a week, required classroom uniforms for each, special dance shoes depending on the class, extra rehearsals for recitals, dress rehearsals, all day staging rehearsals. On and on and on it went. I remember that we used to drive forty-five minutes, each direction, several times weekly to go to my dance studio for classes, which usually lasted just over an hour. Having driven there so many times, I remember actually being able to lie in the back seat with my eyes closed and know exactly where we were by how many turns in each direction we had made. And when I hit high school, dance practice was a daily occurrence – early morning, afternoon, night and some weekends spent dancing in the school auditorium, gym and dance room.

As my sister grew up, she was enlisted in the dance regime. Then there were two of us to support, two dance class schedules to keep straight, two complete sets of unique uniforms. Then my brother grew up and I am sure he thought he was going to be roped into dance too. He had lived in the dance studio his whole life, so he could have probably pulled it off quite gracefully. However, dad had other inclinations for his son and baby brother joined a community soccer team practically as soon as he could walk. He became as proficient in soccer as his sisters were in dance.

As you can imagine, the scheduling was insane. Dad coached the soccer team. Mom participated in the parenting teams at the dance studios. The two of them, I imagine, felt stretched really thin between all the appointments, as well as working enough to meet all the expenses. Through it all, they never showed any frustration or distress regarding scheduling or expenses. I remember my parents sitting on the edge of their seats watching my sister and me or running along the sidelines of my brother’s games. They were interactive, alert and... well... seemingly happy to be there. Either that or they faked it real good!

I am grown now, with a daughter of my own who is trying on different dance techniques, as well. Now it is my turn to sit in the dance studio, which is only a moments drive from where I work and my daughter goes to school. The dance studio which my daughter attends is, apparently, one of the oldest and most renowned in the city. It is not as if it is just some random upstart without a reputation. It is the best – and lest you think I am bragging, it was her stepmother that picked the studio and was all excited about this adventure, not me.

In the beginning of this adventure, which started four years ago, I actually found myself groaning and moaning about the whole deal. First off, my daughter wasn’t really into it and had only started because her little sister wanted to try it out. My former husband thought it would be great for the two of them. I wasn't excited and felt a guilty rush whenever I selfishly thought about all I was giving up to support this endeavor. Then I would remember all that my parents had done for me and I would chastise myself, wondering when I had become a lousy parent.

I began watching the other parents while I sat in the studio, waiting for my daughter to finish her one dance class that lasts only an hour. I see parents that actually shove their daughters through the barely opened door without saying “goodbye” or “have fun” as they bark into their cell phones and rush back to the SUV. Or I see bedraggled young girls shuffling in and dragging their dance bags and coats behind them without their hair fixed, wearing dingy and torn dance clothes. Some parents are yanking their girls by the hand and arguing with them the whole way. Some of the girls frown the entire way through the class and are disrespectful to the teachers. The parents that actually wait in the chilly lobby are complaining and grumbling. What in the world has happened???

There is one mother who is there long before I get there and leaves long after we leave. Her daughter takes eight classes every week. Eight! She is the only mother who is not grumbling and her daughter is one girl who looks like she wants to be there, as does my daughter. Thank heavens, this year my daughter loves her dance class – tap. I think she loves it because it is noisy and fast and far from the strict nature of the ballet classes from her first two years. She enjoys it so much she actually stays after class for a half hour while the teacher shows some of them more advanced steps. She loves it and, therefore, I am finding joy in it too.

Maybe I’m not a lousy parent after all.