My friend and I are in the part of the gym reserved for stretching, lying on our backs, right legs in the air. Mine is pointed up at the ceiling, knee straight, hers is in a similar spot but her knee is bent, her leg is shaking, and she is howling.
"You're so flexible! I used to be flexible!" she laments, glancing at me.
I hear this often from friends and I never know how to respond.
I'm not actually that flexible, for a former dancer?
I know, right. I used to be more flexible too?
Thanks?
Mulling my options, I say nothing and chuckle in what I hope is a supportive way but is probably just ambiguous and weird. We breathe together, imagining what our sixteen year old bodies could do, or what we think they used to be able to do, or what we wish they could have done. I close my eyes and fight the urge to push further, instead letting my shoulders drop just a little of their near constant effort.
Next to us is another woman, a girl really, with her ipod dialed up to DEAFEN and one leg up by her ear. I try to keep my eyes on my own mat but inside my head I can't help but enviously imagine, for the millionth time in my life, hip sockets that are carved open, nearly flat like dinner plates, rather than the curved, deep cups that are mine.
I also guiltily imagine her in fifty years, with hearing aids.
----------------
I was sixteen when my hips and knees started to bother me. I was dancing most days of the week, spending hours on pointe. Standing at the barre, forcing my toes out to form a straight line with my feet, I was acutely aware that my body was never meant to do this, even more so than most bodies. My natural turn-out is closer to ninety degrees than the desired one eighty; my knees and ankles twisted and torqued to make it happen, more or less, but I wasn't fooling anyone, least of all my hip sockets.
In college, I took the train down to New York City to see a highly esteemed doctor whose office walls were crowded with a thrilling photo gallery of famous ballerinas and sports figures.
"You're a dancer?" he asked incredulously, looking at my x-rays. "Your hips are built for marathon running, my dear, not dancing."
"Yeah, well, I'm not a ballet dancer anymore, mostly modern now, so...."
"Still. Wow."
"..."
"I'll give you a prescription for physical therapy but at a certain point, your limits are your limits," he shrugged, resignedly handing me a piece of paper.
As I walked down his hallway to leave, this time ignoring the brilliant faces of ballerinas I've admired since I was a little girl, I balled up the paper in my hand. Though I would later carefully smooth it out and send it through the proper channels to get as much help as I could for my poor battered hips, right then I just wanted to squash his words.
Squash them and throw them away.
-------
We are fully into the swing of the school year and it's still study in adjustment. Z is clearly tired by the end of her school day and laments how little time she now has by herself. Every day it seems something brand new and yet completely, exhaustingly old blows up in our faces.
Recently it was suggested to us that we start experimenting with less structure in her home life, giving her a safe space to practice dealing with a world that is unpredictable and chaotic. Messing with her schedule is something we have been loathe to do since she was a small baby and loudly expressed her dislike of change and variety. Most of the time, we eat and sleep and play in timed chunks specifically calibrated to maximize the potential for smooth transitions.
"So she's not fond of change and she's struggling with flexibility and transitions? Hmm.... who's she like?" I was asked.
"I have no idea," I said, smiling cheekily at my obvious lie.
-------------------------
Last week Z woke up sick. From her first wincing swallow, my mind raced ahead to every cancellation that would be necessary in the next few days. My list started with the kids' cancellations and progressed quickly to the total reorganization that my life and personal plans that would need to happen with a sick kid at home for at least a day or two.
It took me a few minutes to realize I was writing a to-do list instead of bringing Z a spoonful of honey and giving her a hug.
I resolved - again - to hug first next time.
------------
My limits are there. They are real. My emotional structure, like my hip structure, feels restricted and compressed most days, frustrating me even as I stretch myself up to its' edges.
I don't fear the wrinkly sagging of old age nearly as much as the deep, entrenching rigidity.
I know it is my job as a parent to help Z accept who she is and reach past what she thinks she's capable of. To teach her that her personal limits are strengths, are weaknesses, are real, are worth accepting, are worth stretching past.
How do we simultaneously teach, and work on ourselves, acceptance and ambition?
I know I will never, ever get my leg up to my ear. I know I will always struggle when my day changes course suddenly.
But that doesn't mean I should ever stop stretching.
Showing posts with label dance dance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dance dance. Show all posts
10/6/11
7/10/11
Improvisation
I walked into the vast gym and stared at the way the dancers moved, confused. Nothing about their movements looked remotely familiar. Some dancers spun alone, lost in their own rhythm. Other dancers' bodies twisted around each other, pressing fleshy bits into bony bits until a lift happened, a leg took a ride on a shoulder, a head rested heavily on the crook of an arm. There was no noticeable step.
"You must be J. You're in the right place," a woman said striding toward me. I figured she was the dance company director that I spoke with on the phone. I had called everyone I could find in the phone book in a desperate attempt to find dance in western Maine and this was the best fit, a collegiate improvisational dance company which was open to members of the surrounding community.
"So this is improvisation."
"Yep. Jump in when you're ready."
I had been dancing for 18 years at this point, studying ballet, modern, jazz, and flamenco, performing for audiences large and small. I was comfortable with the dance I knew: there was a right and a wrong way to do things. I liked to know where I stood, even if where I stood was Not Measuring Up.
I couldn't remember the last time I had improvised anything. Maybe when I was four and dance class included scarves and moving to music however you wanted. All my training since then had been about molding my body into shapes specified by someone else. The counts mattered, the height, the speed, the rhythm, everything was specific and precise and external. Not mine.
In the gymnasium, surrounded by strangers, I started dancing by myself. I tried to move however I felt. I felt..... self conscious. Weird. Incompetent.
Without much thought, I started to fall into choreography I knew. When I glanced up at the director, she smiled knowingly at me.
Busted.
--------------------
E was a few weeks old. When I laid her on the bed to change her poopy diaper, I made a startling discovery: we were out of wipes. OUT. OF. WIPES. As in: not a single wipe in the whole entire house. Not in a car. Not in a tree. Not in my purse. WIPES, WHERE CAN YOU BE? (Sorry. Too much Dr. Suess.)
So I did the only logical thing: I sat down and cried and tried to imagine taking E to the store to buy more wipes with orange newborn poop oozing all over her car seat and I cried some more.
I had never run out of wipes before this. Ever. I viewed motherhood as some sort of long-winded boy scout test- I would always be prepared.
But this was during the first few weeks of a new baby, the first month of two kids, the first week of my husband back at work. What I'm saying is: this juggler was suddenly dropping many, many balls.
Then CG gently pointed out that we could just use moistened paper towels, as they are quite similar to wipes.
"But you are supposed to wipe babies with WIPES," I wailed, because I had read the books and followed the rules and knew the facts.
"Lots of people don't have wipes," he said, handing me a wet paper towel.
"Oh. Right." Right.
-------------------
When I entered the dance studio, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Perhaps "stench" is a more appropriate word? When you read the words "dirty hippies" do your nostrils fill with the memory of unwashed armpits and dirty feet, with a lingering aftertaste of patchouli? Then that's about right.
Some dancers ringed the sides of the studio, sitting, drinking water, watching the action in the center. The action looked like... well, it looked like what I imagine an orgy looks like. People pressing into each other, hair and sweat and skin intermixing in strange and possibly unhygienic ways. Bodies were tumbling over one another, leaving, coming back, flinging themselves at a new partner. It was a dazzling, dizzying mess of dance.
This was my first Contact Improvisation jam in San Francisco. But I had done this before! Last year, in Maine! I could do this!
Before I even sat down, I was immediately invited to dance by a particularly sweaty man.
Um, is this how it works here? Like a cotillion? Oooookaaaaayyy.
He started right in, pressing into me, giving me his weight, nudging me to give mine. I can do this, just goooo with it, I repeatedly thought as I rolled around with him, and also this: Whatever you do, don't press your face into his crotch.
When it was over, I smelled of him and, him of me, probably.
'You're new here," he declared, not a question, he was sure.
"Yep."
"Well, welcome. Enjoy yourself and don't worry so much. There's no right way to do this."
"Right." Right.
----------------------
When I became a mom, I knew I had more than my fair share of anxiety about motherhood. But I was sure that my conscientiousness, my preparedness, my lifelong need to plan out a schedule, consult experts, bring small packages of snacks and water and tissues with me everywhere would all finally be put to use.
I mean, there were good reasons friends had jokingly called me "Mom" for years.
What I didn't know was that all my preparedness would be beside the point. That my small forays into dance improvisation had taught me more about motherhood than a lifetime of carrying snacks in my purse.
---------------
I was excited and a little nervous to take class with a new teacher from Europe. I liked her warm, easy manner right away and only flinched once when she told us the second half of the class would be improvisation. I had, after all, been improvising for several years by now.
I opened up under her kind gaze. She encouraged me to reach beyond anything I had done before.
At the end of the first week, she approached me after class. Would I like to work with her company on a performance piece? It would be loosely structured, mostly improvised.
"Yes, yes I would," I said, not having to think twice.
--------------
For the last three Wednesdays, Z and E and I have set out on Adventure Afternoons. I got the idea from a tweet of Backpacking Dad's where he mentioned it being "Adventure Day" and asking his daughter which direction they should drive.
I thought, well doesn't that sound like something a spontaneous, flexible, improvisational parent would do.
Too bad Z and E don't have one of those.
But I want to be one of those parents. And why can't I be?
I told Z we would start the next day: Adventure Afternoon. She could chose the direction we would drive and then we'd set out, looking for new places to go, new things to see. North, South, East, West.
Of course, I couldn't help myself: I researched it all first. I made lists of possible places in each direction, found their addresses and phone numbers, filled a bag with water, snacks, a camera, crayons, changes of clothes, WIPES.
First, Z chose South. Turns out, if you drive due South of us, you don't find much but farmland. But off we drove anyway.
Both hands on the wheel, crazy lady.
Fairy Pirates still walk the plank.
Z exalted as we got back in the car: "We never would have found this without Adventure Afternoon! What will we find next?!"
Our next adventures (West and East) included trips to a roller rink, the best playground I've found in our area, an inflatable bounce gym, running through outside sprinklers and enjoying ice cream smoothies even though it was right before dinner.
I know this is the way some people live every day. I'm sure there are plenty of parents who don't need to set aside a specific afternoon for Adventure with a capital A. But for me, it's been a revelation.
I can still carry snacks and wipes and addresses but we don't have to know exactly where we're headed. We can follow our nose and whims, our intention clear and open.
We can improvise.
"You must be J. You're in the right place," a woman said striding toward me. I figured she was the dance company director that I spoke with on the phone. I had called everyone I could find in the phone book in a desperate attempt to find dance in western Maine and this was the best fit, a collegiate improvisational dance company which was open to members of the surrounding community.
"So this is improvisation."
"Yep. Jump in when you're ready."
I had been dancing for 18 years at this point, studying ballet, modern, jazz, and flamenco, performing for audiences large and small. I was comfortable with the dance I knew: there was a right and a wrong way to do things. I liked to know where I stood, even if where I stood was Not Measuring Up.
I couldn't remember the last time I had improvised anything. Maybe when I was four and dance class included scarves and moving to music however you wanted. All my training since then had been about molding my body into shapes specified by someone else. The counts mattered, the height, the speed, the rhythm, everything was specific and precise and external. Not mine.
In the gymnasium, surrounded by strangers, I started dancing by myself. I tried to move however I felt. I felt..... self conscious. Weird. Incompetent.
Without much thought, I started to fall into choreography I knew. When I glanced up at the director, she smiled knowingly at me.
Busted.
--------------------
E was a few weeks old. When I laid her on the bed to change her poopy diaper, I made a startling discovery: we were out of wipes. OUT. OF. WIPES. As in: not a single wipe in the whole entire house. Not in a car. Not in a tree. Not in my purse. WIPES, WHERE CAN YOU BE? (Sorry. Too much Dr. Suess.)
So I did the only logical thing: I sat down and cried and tried to imagine taking E to the store to buy more wipes with orange newborn poop oozing all over her car seat and I cried some more.
I had never run out of wipes before this. Ever. I viewed motherhood as some sort of long-winded boy scout test- I would always be prepared.
But this was during the first few weeks of a new baby, the first month of two kids, the first week of my husband back at work. What I'm saying is: this juggler was suddenly dropping many, many balls.
Then CG gently pointed out that we could just use moistened paper towels, as they are quite similar to wipes.
"But you are supposed to wipe babies with WIPES," I wailed, because I had read the books and followed the rules and knew the facts.
"Lots of people don't have wipes," he said, handing me a wet paper towel.
"Oh. Right." Right.
-------------------
When I entered the dance studio, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Perhaps "stench" is a more appropriate word? When you read the words "dirty hippies" do your nostrils fill with the memory of unwashed armpits and dirty feet, with a lingering aftertaste of patchouli? Then that's about right.
Some dancers ringed the sides of the studio, sitting, drinking water, watching the action in the center. The action looked like... well, it looked like what I imagine an orgy looks like. People pressing into each other, hair and sweat and skin intermixing in strange and possibly unhygienic ways. Bodies were tumbling over one another, leaving, coming back, flinging themselves at a new partner. It was a dazzling, dizzying mess of dance.
This was my first Contact Improvisation jam in San Francisco. But I had done this before! Last year, in Maine! I could do this!
Before I even sat down, I was immediately invited to dance by a particularly sweaty man.
Um, is this how it works here? Like a cotillion? Oooookaaaaayyy.
He started right in, pressing into me, giving me his weight, nudging me to give mine. I can do this, just goooo with it, I repeatedly thought as I rolled around with him, and also this: Whatever you do, don't press your face into his crotch.
When it was over, I smelled of him and, him of me, probably.
'You're new here," he declared, not a question, he was sure.
"Yep."
"Well, welcome. Enjoy yourself and don't worry so much. There's no right way to do this."
"Right." Right.
----------------------
When I became a mom, I knew I had more than my fair share of anxiety about motherhood. But I was sure that my conscientiousness, my preparedness, my lifelong need to plan out a schedule, consult experts, bring small packages of snacks and water and tissues with me everywhere would all finally be put to use.
I mean, there were good reasons friends had jokingly called me "Mom" for years.
What I didn't know was that all my preparedness would be beside the point. That my small forays into dance improvisation had taught me more about motherhood than a lifetime of carrying snacks in my purse.
---------------
I was excited and a little nervous to take class with a new teacher from Europe. I liked her warm, easy manner right away and only flinched once when she told us the second half of the class would be improvisation. I had, after all, been improvising for several years by now.
I opened up under her kind gaze. She encouraged me to reach beyond anything I had done before.
At the end of the first week, she approached me after class. Would I like to work with her company on a performance piece? It would be loosely structured, mostly improvised.
"Yes, yes I would," I said, not having to think twice.
--------------
For the last three Wednesdays, Z and E and I have set out on Adventure Afternoons. I got the idea from a tweet of Backpacking Dad's where he mentioned it being "Adventure Day" and asking his daughter which direction they should drive.
I thought, well doesn't that sound like something a spontaneous, flexible, improvisational parent would do.
Too bad Z and E don't have one of those.
But I want to be one of those parents. And why can't I be?
I told Z we would start the next day: Adventure Afternoon. She could chose the direction we would drive and then we'd set out, looking for new places to go, new things to see. North, South, East, West.
Of course, I couldn't help myself: I researched it all first. I made lists of possible places in each direction, found their addresses and phone numbers, filled a bag with water, snacks, a camera, crayons, changes of clothes, WIPES.
First, Z chose South. Turns out, if you drive due South of us, you don't find much but farmland. But off we drove anyway.
Both hands on the wheel, crazy lady.Just when things started to get a little hairy (There may have been whining about BOREDOM from the back and hissing about FUN from the front.), we happened upon the most beautiful little plant nursery complete with an awesome wooden ship and train for kids to play on. The girls exclaimed over brightly colored plants and became "fairy pirates" and shared some local apple/cherry cider.
Fairy Pirates still walk the plank.Our next adventures (West and East) included trips to a roller rink, the best playground I've found in our area, an inflatable bounce gym, running through outside sprinklers and enjoying ice cream smoothies even though it was right before dinner.
I know this is the way some people live every day. I'm sure there are plenty of parents who don't need to set aside a specific afternoon for Adventure with a capital A. But for me, it's been a revelation.
I can still carry snacks and wipes and addresses but we don't have to know exactly where we're headed. We can follow our nose and whims, our intention clear and open.
We can improvise.7/5/11
Transitions
In dance, transitions should be invisible, devoid of noticeable effort. The moment between each step should not really exist, but since, of course, it does, it should exist in such an organic way so as to connect two disparate elements seamlessly. Truly gifted dancers do this naturally, their muscles and tendons seem to reach through their skin to find the next movement, keeping it all together as a whole.
My favorite dance teacher used to say: "Transitions are dancing; they are what keeps choreography from being a string of tricks and poses".
Not surprisingly, transitions are the hardest, most nuanced part of dancing.
------------------------
From the last week of school, to the first week of camp.
From afternoon gymnastics classes and rigid bedtimes to afternoons spent with the sprinkler and hose and bedtimes pushed for BBQs or firefly catching or just because we didn't realize how late it was.
From air conditioning to steamy pavement to stuffy car and back again. From wet bathing suits to nubby towels to dry sundresses.
From just finding our stride and rhythm, to having to find a new stride, all over again.
------------
Years ago, I attended a summer dance festival that culminated in a night of performances in a lofty barn surrounded by looming white mountains. Near the end of the show, a spot normally reserved for the most esteemed teachers, one of the students took to the stage, sweaty, beaming, alone in a halo of light.
He was clearly preparing for something monumental.
The music started and he just stood there in fifth position, gazing out at us and seeming to pulse with energy. Then he took off in a single movement, not a magnificent leap or a spinning turn or any of the latest tricks we all tried our hand at that summer. Instead, in the brief moment before the lights went out again, he executed one perfect "contretemps", a small, classical, normally ignored transition step.
The roar afterward was deafening.
For just a moment, there had been nothing but that one step, one that is usually forgotten, rushed through to get to the next thing. He gave every molecule in his body over to that moment and made us pay attention to the lowly contretemps.
"Transitions are everything," our teachers had been saying all summer. But it took this performance for us to actually pay attention and see.
-----------
Dropping Z off at her first day of camp, we are both immediately overwhelmed, overstimulated. Drop off is in a large basketball court, not the type of room exactly known for soothing acoustics, filled with nervous children, not the type of people exactly known for quiet calm.
She clings to me, asks me to stay and I don't blame her. There is nothing welcoming here, unless you find a teeming mass of children with backpacks welcoming. I stay, shooting plaintive looks to the teenage counselors who watch, disinterested or unaware, from the other side of the room.
Her counselor finally leads her group out the door, off to arts and crafts or music or, uh, 'smores? Z waves, wary, not quite ready to go to the next thing.
But the next thing is here and she must move toward it and I must let her.
----------------
I sit on the couch folding laundry and watching "So You Think You Can Dance". I am a bit twitchy as I watch, dying to dance like that, some of my muscles remembering how good it felt, others reminding me that much of it hurt, still others reminding me I was never that good, never, ever.
There are showboats on this show, dancers with big leaps and turns and legs always extended up to here. They want to catch our eye, impress us. This is TV, after all; there is very little room for nuance.
I am impressed, not by tricks, but by the dancers who move through each movement as if propelled by tidal forces barely within their control. They ride those waves with a potent mix of abandon, trust, and curiosity. Whoa, yeah, and where does this lead? They make it look easy, every trick, every transition, just flowing out of them, each movement as effortless as the last.
I stop folding and just watch.
---------------
I pick Z up from camp, leading her out the door by the hand, E perched on one hip. Z prances to the car, bubbling over about a new funny song and the "orgamami" they did in art. We are all smiling.
But when we get to the car, she winds herself quickly into a fit. I didn't bring her any water for the 5 minute car ride home and she's THIRSTY and her water bottle is EMPTY. It's HOT IN HERE. NOOOOOO, I DON'T WANT TO GET IN MY CAR SEAT. WREAAAAAAA.
I can feel my jaw tighten and I fight the urge to forcefully move us on to the next thing: carseats, home, lunch, nap/quiet-time and on and on and on. These moments, caught between different parts of our day, between one world and the next, one activity and the next, they just don't come easy for Z. Or me. It seems she struggles every time to change gears, to let go, to accept what's next. I struggle every time not to rush or ignore or force.
I close my eyes and wait a breath, half listening to the tantrum I am still learning that I cannot end or control.
I tell her plenty of cool water is at home, the AC's coming on now, let me know when you're ready to sit in your carseat. And then I wait, arms vaguely open if she wants help or a hug.
It takes just long enough for me to question my approach. Then she's in her seat, wiping her tears, ready to go.
Ready for the next thing.
-------------
We are learning to ride these transitions together. They matter. They are a part of our lives that I am learning to shine a light on. They seemed inconsequential, unimportant, unworthy of my time and effort.
But Z has shown me that transitions are not to be ignored.
It is my hope that, one day, we will both approach them fearlessly, navigate them seamlessly, with abandon, trust and curiosity. Like the very best dancers.
My favorite dance teacher used to say: "Transitions are dancing; they are what keeps choreography from being a string of tricks and poses".
Not surprisingly, transitions are the hardest, most nuanced part of dancing.
------------------------
From the last week of school, to the first week of camp.
From afternoon gymnastics classes and rigid bedtimes to afternoons spent with the sprinkler and hose and bedtimes pushed for BBQs or firefly catching or just because we didn't realize how late it was.
From air conditioning to steamy pavement to stuffy car and back again. From wet bathing suits to nubby towels to dry sundresses.
From just finding our stride and rhythm, to having to find a new stride, all over again.
------------
Years ago, I attended a summer dance festival that culminated in a night of performances in a lofty barn surrounded by looming white mountains. Near the end of the show, a spot normally reserved for the most esteemed teachers, one of the students took to the stage, sweaty, beaming, alone in a halo of light.
He was clearly preparing for something monumental.
The music started and he just stood there in fifth position, gazing out at us and seeming to pulse with energy. Then he took off in a single movement, not a magnificent leap or a spinning turn or any of the latest tricks we all tried our hand at that summer. Instead, in the brief moment before the lights went out again, he executed one perfect "contretemps", a small, classical, normally ignored transition step.
The roar afterward was deafening.
For just a moment, there had been nothing but that one step, one that is usually forgotten, rushed through to get to the next thing. He gave every molecule in his body over to that moment and made us pay attention to the lowly contretemps.
"Transitions are everything," our teachers had been saying all summer. But it took this performance for us to actually pay attention and see.
-----------
Dropping Z off at her first day of camp, we are both immediately overwhelmed, overstimulated. Drop off is in a large basketball court, not the type of room exactly known for soothing acoustics, filled with nervous children, not the type of people exactly known for quiet calm.
She clings to me, asks me to stay and I don't blame her. There is nothing welcoming here, unless you find a teeming mass of children with backpacks welcoming. I stay, shooting plaintive looks to the teenage counselors who watch, disinterested or unaware, from the other side of the room.
Her counselor finally leads her group out the door, off to arts and crafts or music or, uh, 'smores? Z waves, wary, not quite ready to go to the next thing.
But the next thing is here and she must move toward it and I must let her.
----------------
I sit on the couch folding laundry and watching "So You Think You Can Dance". I am a bit twitchy as I watch, dying to dance like that, some of my muscles remembering how good it felt, others reminding me that much of it hurt, still others reminding me I was never that good, never, ever.
There are showboats on this show, dancers with big leaps and turns and legs always extended up to here. They want to catch our eye, impress us. This is TV, after all; there is very little room for nuance.
I am impressed, not by tricks, but by the dancers who move through each movement as if propelled by tidal forces barely within their control. They ride those waves with a potent mix of abandon, trust, and curiosity. Whoa, yeah, and where does this lead? They make it look easy, every trick, every transition, just flowing out of them, each movement as effortless as the last.
I stop folding and just watch.
---------------
I pick Z up from camp, leading her out the door by the hand, E perched on one hip. Z prances to the car, bubbling over about a new funny song and the "orgamami" they did in art. We are all smiling.
But when we get to the car, she winds herself quickly into a fit. I didn't bring her any water for the 5 minute car ride home and she's THIRSTY and her water bottle is EMPTY. It's HOT IN HERE. NOOOOOO, I DON'T WANT TO GET IN MY CAR SEAT. WREAAAAAAA.
I can feel my jaw tighten and I fight the urge to forcefully move us on to the next thing: carseats, home, lunch, nap/quiet-time and on and on and on. These moments, caught between different parts of our day, between one world and the next, one activity and the next, they just don't come easy for Z. Or me. It seems she struggles every time to change gears, to let go, to accept what's next. I struggle every time not to rush or ignore or force.
I close my eyes and wait a breath, half listening to the tantrum I am still learning that I cannot end or control.
I tell her plenty of cool water is at home, the AC's coming on now, let me know when you're ready to sit in your carseat. And then I wait, arms vaguely open if she wants help or a hug.
It takes just long enough for me to question my approach. Then she's in her seat, wiping her tears, ready to go.
Ready for the next thing.
-------------
We are learning to ride these transitions together. They matter. They are a part of our lives that I am learning to shine a light on. They seemed inconsequential, unimportant, unworthy of my time and effort.
But Z has shown me that transitions are not to be ignored.
It is my hope that, one day, we will both approach them fearlessly, navigate them seamlessly, with abandon, trust and curiosity. Like the very best dancers.
6/6/11
3/25/10
Last class
Yesterday was Z's last ballet class of the session, which meant parents could come in and watch the last half of class.
We were so excited, she was so excited.
We were so proud, she was so proud.
CG took the afternoon off of work to come and see her. Watching her reach for his hand after she had crossed the floor, we both knew how much it meant to her to have him there.
My mom always said that when she watched me dance, I was the only one on the stage.
That was how I felt yesterday.
We were so excited, she was so excited.
We were so proud, she was so proud.
CG took the afternoon off of work to come and see her. Watching her reach for his hand after she had crossed the floor, we both knew how much it meant to her to have him there.
My mom always said that when she watched me dance, I was the only one on the stage.
That was how I felt yesterday.
1/14/10
New shoes, part two.
When I was three, I started begging my mom to take me to ballet class. Who knows why I fixated on it but I remember wanting it so badly.
On my first day, I refused to participate and hid behind my mom the entire time, sucking my thumb. The teacher, a gorgeous buxom Italian lady, came over to me at the end of the class and made me promise I would come back the following week and dance. Being shy and terrified and ever so slightly thrilled, I never thought about being able to go back on my promise.
The following week, I came back and danced. And I didn't stop until I was 30.
Zoe hasn't been asking for dance classes. Mostly she asks about taking another "horsey class", which we will, come spring. But we needed something this winter.
So on Tuesday we went to Target and I let her pick out a leotard and tights, though I tried in vain to steer her away from the fuschia one with rhinestones, finally just weakly warning her I didn't know what the teacher's rules were about what you could wear and we might have to come back to get a plain one. Next we bought some real ballet shoes from the dance store where she marvelled at the big girls trying on pointe shoes and gently stroked the fluffy tulle tutus.
The whole time we were shopping, I greeted her enthusiasm with a wary smile and repeated in my head: she is not you, she will have her own experience, she is NOT YOU, she is her own person, let her have her own experience.
She loved her first class yesterday. There was no hiding behind me, no thumb sucking. There were no rules about what you could or couldn't wear. As the girls filed into the room, I swallowed my shyness and took Z's hand to introduce her to the teacher, thinking I would have to help her integrate into the class since the moms are supposed to wait outside and we missed the first class last week.
After saying hi to the teacher, a bleached blond with a warm smile, Z let go of my hand and ran to sit down with the other girls, ready for dance class.
She is her own person, she will have her own experience.
I sat outside and jockeyed for position with the other moms, all of us pretending to be nonchalant but each of us actually desperate to catch glimpses of our girls through the little sliver of a window. A few of the moms were friendly and I was able to chat like a somewhat normal person. Having E there strapped to my chest, like a drooly, wiggly, protective chest plate of armor, helped.
All the way home, Z was smiling. "I love my new dance class, Mommy. When can we go there again?"
She is not you.
"Next week, sweetheart."
"NoooOOOO. I wanna go again TOMORROW, next week is too far away.........Can I take dance class forever and ever?"
She will have her own experience. She is not you.
"You can dance for as long as you like."
On my first day, I refused to participate and hid behind my mom the entire time, sucking my thumb. The teacher, a gorgeous buxom Italian lady, came over to me at the end of the class and made me promise I would come back the following week and dance. Being shy and terrified and ever so slightly thrilled, I never thought about being able to go back on my promise.
The following week, I came back and danced. And I didn't stop until I was 30.
Zoe hasn't been asking for dance classes. Mostly she asks about taking another "horsey class", which we will, come spring. But we needed something this winter.
So on Tuesday we went to Target and I let her pick out a leotard and tights, though I tried in vain to steer her away from the fuschia one with rhinestones, finally just weakly warning her I didn't know what the teacher's rules were about what you could wear and we might have to come back to get a plain one. Next we bought some real ballet shoes from the dance store where she marvelled at the big girls trying on pointe shoes and gently stroked the fluffy tulle tutus.
The whole time we were shopping, I greeted her enthusiasm with a wary smile and repeated in my head: she is not you, she will have her own experience, she is NOT YOU, she is her own person, let her have her own experience.
She loved her first class yesterday. There was no hiding behind me, no thumb sucking. There were no rules about what you could or couldn't wear. As the girls filed into the room, I swallowed my shyness and took Z's hand to introduce her to the teacher, thinking I would have to help her integrate into the class since the moms are supposed to wait outside and we missed the first class last week.
After saying hi to the teacher, a bleached blond with a warm smile, Z let go of my hand and ran to sit down with the other girls, ready for dance class.
She is her own person, she will have her own experience. I sat outside and jockeyed for position with the other moms, all of us pretending to be nonchalant but each of us actually desperate to catch glimpses of our girls through the little sliver of a window. A few of the moms were friendly and I was able to chat like a somewhat normal person. Having E there strapped to my chest, like a drooly, wiggly, protective chest plate of armor, helped.
All the way home, Z was smiling. "I love my new dance class, Mommy. When can we go there again?"
She is not you.
"Next week, sweetheart."
"NoooOOOO. I wanna go again TOMORROW, next week is too far away.........Can I take dance class forever and ever?"
She will have her own experience. She is not you.
"You can dance for as long as you like."
1/12/10
New shoes.
Sunday, 8:51 am.
Z and I arrive at the pool early, as the early morning lane swimmers are doing their last laps. Her hand-me-down suit is gaping at the legs and I'm tugging at my own suit, hoping last night's hot date with my Mach-3 Turbo did its job.
We spend 20 minutes in the pool by ourselves, kicking and noodling and motorboat-motorboat-step-on-the-gas-ing. Finally, some older kids and parents arrive but with Z not able to swim on her own, she's reduced to watching the other kids from afar.
As the classes start, the ones that Z doesn't want to take because she doesn't like to get her hair, face, eyes or ears wet (OMG ARMAGEDDON IF THE EARS GET WET), we pack up our things. We towel off in the locker room, both of us eyeing the other moms and kids as they get into their suits for class.
"I want to make a friend," Z announces loudly.
I blush self-consciously but force myself to smile, to support her. "Okay. Do you want to introduce yourself to someone?"
She nods and turns to a little girl close by, "Hi. I'm Z."
The other girl is not yet two, a little young for full conversation. Her mother answers Z's questions and Z seems satisfied as she grabs my hand for the freezing walk to the car.
On the way home, I am mentally checking off items in my head (Alone time with Z. CHECK. Preschooler energy release. CHECK.) when I hear her voice, soft but triumphant from the back seat. "I made a friend."
(Oh, right. Friends.)
----------------
Monday, 9:30 am.
After Z goes to school, I sit motionless at the computer, facing yet another cold week ensconced in the house. I think about the playgroups we've gone to that haven't worked out for one reason or another, the ones for Z that meet at E's naptime, the ones for E that meet at Z's preschool pick-up time, the ones where the moms all cluck about how expensive it is to dress their girls in frilly dresses and their husbands get mad at them and they just yell WELL HOW ABOUT YOU TAKE SOME MONEY OUT OF YOUR PRECIOUS FOOTBALL BEER BUDGET, HUH? and everyone laughs and clucks except me.
I begin searching the web for classes for Z, anything that will get her moving and get us out of the house, meeting new people.
Music and movement? Full. Preschool gymnastics? Meets at E's naptime. Splash and play? Meets during Z's preschool and may include, one can only guess, SPLASHING.
Pre-ballet? Good time. One space left. Let's not think too much about ballet, baaLLLLLEEETTTTT with all its baggage. It's just a way to meet other moms and girls and get Z moving in these cold months without a playground.
Let's just try it.
------------------
Tuesday, 4:12 pm.
"Can I try on my new shoes now, Mommy? Can I? Can I? Will you teach me to dance, Mommy? Will you teach me ballet?"
Z and I arrive at the pool early, as the early morning lane swimmers are doing their last laps. Her hand-me-down suit is gaping at the legs and I'm tugging at my own suit, hoping last night's hot date with my Mach-3 Turbo did its job.
We spend 20 minutes in the pool by ourselves, kicking and noodling and motorboat-motorboat-step-on-the-gas-ing. Finally, some older kids and parents arrive but with Z not able to swim on her own, she's reduced to watching the other kids from afar.
As the classes start, the ones that Z doesn't want to take because she doesn't like to get her hair, face, eyes or ears wet (OMG ARMAGEDDON IF THE EARS GET WET), we pack up our things. We towel off in the locker room, both of us eyeing the other moms and kids as they get into their suits for class.
"I want to make a friend," Z announces loudly.
I blush self-consciously but force myself to smile, to support her. "Okay. Do you want to introduce yourself to someone?"
She nods and turns to a little girl close by, "Hi. I'm Z."
The other girl is not yet two, a little young for full conversation. Her mother answers Z's questions and Z seems satisfied as she grabs my hand for the freezing walk to the car.
On the way home, I am mentally checking off items in my head (Alone time with Z. CHECK. Preschooler energy release. CHECK.) when I hear her voice, soft but triumphant from the back seat. "I made a friend."
(Oh, right. Friends.)
----------------
Monday, 9:30 am.
After Z goes to school, I sit motionless at the computer, facing yet another cold week ensconced in the house. I think about the playgroups we've gone to that haven't worked out for one reason or another, the ones for Z that meet at E's naptime, the ones for E that meet at Z's preschool pick-up time, the ones where the moms all cluck about how expensive it is to dress their girls in frilly dresses and their husbands get mad at them and they just yell WELL HOW ABOUT YOU TAKE SOME MONEY OUT OF YOUR PRECIOUS FOOTBALL BEER BUDGET, HUH? and everyone laughs and clucks except me.
I begin searching the web for classes for Z, anything that will get her moving and get us out of the house, meeting new people.
Music and movement? Full. Preschool gymnastics? Meets at E's naptime. Splash and play? Meets during Z's preschool and may include, one can only guess, SPLASHING.
Pre-ballet? Good time. One space left. Let's not think too much about ballet, baaLLLLLEEETTTTT with all its baggage. It's just a way to meet other moms and girls and get Z moving in these cold months without a playground.
Let's just try it.
------------------
Tuesday, 4:12 pm.
"Can I try on my new shoes now, Mommy? Can I? Can I? Will you teach me to dance, Mommy? Will you teach me ballet?"
10/20/09
Robust
When I was dancing, one of my favorite compliments from a teacher or another dancer was "you were really taking up space!" or "you tore that space up!". It meant that I seemed larger than myself, my limbs extending past their earthly bounds. I ached to move across the floor as if I had an extra inch or three of thigh bone.
Being somewhat shy and passive, and also quite short-limbed, I coveted this compliment above all others. I printed out the word "ROBUST" and taped it on my mirror. I tried attacking every movement as if desperately drowning.
I wanted to be robust, to dance BIG, to matter on a stage or a class, in life. I wanted to matter and I thought mattering meant big tricks and big moments.
Then I began to study the dancers who captured my eye. I noticed that not only could they "dance big" but they had perfect control over the small, subtle moments too. Even standing still, they could tell a whole story, evoking sadness or exhaustion or exhilaration with every muscle fiber. Calibrating effort as carefully as a surgeon, they could send shockwaves through an audience with the tilt of their head, the flick of their wrist. The older I got, the more I realized the importance of the smallest moments, the transitions, the moments of stillness or seeming inconsequence that could convey volumes when delivered with purpose and intention. During the last years of my dancing, it seemed I finally started to find that nuance myself. The power of the small moments became my obsession and I found the big moments, the big tricks, rather boring.
I think about this a lot these days, these seemingly small, inconsequential days. As a stay-at-home mother at the moment, my world, my life can feel so small, so inconsequential. The days spent wiping and tidying and stacking and hand-holding can go by in a blur as if I'm just biding time and wishing I could rush toward the BIG TRICK.
This last week, we've all been sick and my world feels like it has contracted inward even further. I've got bronchitis after the flu, E has an ear infection after having a cold, Z has a low grade fever and a cold and .... a bad case of the threes. I try not to yearn for some BIG moment in the future. I am searching for meaningful impact in the small moments. How much it means that I am here with Z, stroking her forehead while she watches Kipper. How each moment holding E as she whimpers at night, groggy and uncomfortable, is a gift of love.
So when I find myself wishing these days away, I try to stop myself and imagine what power each small moment in our lives can have. I may not be on a stage anymore but I can imbue this moment, with this audience, with extraordinary, big, ROBUST love.
Being somewhat shy and passive, and also quite short-limbed, I coveted this compliment above all others. I printed out the word "ROBUST" and taped it on my mirror. I tried attacking every movement as if desperately drowning.
I wanted to be robust, to dance BIG, to matter on a stage or a class, in life. I wanted to matter and I thought mattering meant big tricks and big moments.
Then I began to study the dancers who captured my eye. I noticed that not only could they "dance big" but they had perfect control over the small, subtle moments too. Even standing still, they could tell a whole story, evoking sadness or exhaustion or exhilaration with every muscle fiber. Calibrating effort as carefully as a surgeon, they could send shockwaves through an audience with the tilt of their head, the flick of their wrist. The older I got, the more I realized the importance of the smallest moments, the transitions, the moments of stillness or seeming inconsequence that could convey volumes when delivered with purpose and intention. During the last years of my dancing, it seemed I finally started to find that nuance myself. The power of the small moments became my obsession and I found the big moments, the big tricks, rather boring.
I think about this a lot these days, these seemingly small, inconsequential days. As a stay-at-home mother at the moment, my world, my life can feel so small, so inconsequential. The days spent wiping and tidying and stacking and hand-holding can go by in a blur as if I'm just biding time and wishing I could rush toward the BIG TRICK.
This last week, we've all been sick and my world feels like it has contracted inward even further. I've got bronchitis after the flu, E has an ear infection after having a cold, Z has a low grade fever and a cold and .... a bad case of the threes. I try not to yearn for some BIG moment in the future. I am searching for meaningful impact in the small moments. How much it means that I am here with Z, stroking her forehead while she watches Kipper. How each moment holding E as she whimpers at night, groggy and uncomfortable, is a gift of love.
So when I find myself wishing these days away, I try to stop myself and imagine what power each small moment in our lives can have. I may not be on a stage anymore but I can imbue this moment, with this audience, with extraordinary, big, ROBUST love.
6/29/09
Let's stay together
Today is my seven year wedding anniversary.
CG was an academic when we married, a PhD student who hoped to become a professor one day. I saw my life stretching out before me as a professor's wife with all the leather bound books and elbow-patched trappings. I imagined myself pedaling around an idyllic college campus, wondering which young coeds had a crush on my husband.
When we got married, I was a dancer/Pilates instructor/massage therapist/grant writer. I worked 7 days a week and was often gone from the house, with my huge bag full of snacks, meals and changes of clothes, from 7 am to 10 pm. I rarely sat still.
We are not who we used to be.
Getting married is a promise. I didn't quite grasp that it was a promise to stay together as we each grow and change in ways no one could predict.
In a few short weeks, CG is leaving academia, after much tortured soul searching, for his new job in Virginia. He will not be a professor.
I haven't danced, really danced, in over 4 years. I often spend whole days in my 9 x 13 living room.
Last year, CG discovered flying. He now has his private pilot's license and is working toward his instrument rating. I never imagined this as part of our story. My ambivalence about his flying is something we work through. It is worth working through because I love him, pledged to stand beside him as he searches for meaning and joy in his life. It is worth working through because I've never seen him so happy as when he is talking about flying. Except maybe when he's actually flying.
Two years ago, I discovered blogging. I've always kept a journal, working through my thoughts and experiences through writing, wading through words looking for understanding and expression. CG sometimes struggles with this blog. He, like some other friends and family, is more private than me and isn't always comfortable with me sharing personals stories about our family with the interwebs. He's come to accept it because he knows how important it has become to me and wouldn't keep me from something that I care about.
We've come a long way, baby.
Seven years ago today, we were this young, impossibly happy couple who couldn't seem to stop grinning as we pranced our way through our choreographed first dance.
Every time I hear this song on the radio, I remember this day, seven years ago, when we promised to stay together. To support one another. To grow together.
Happy Anniversary, CG.
Let's stay together.
(I couldn't figure out how to get the video onto my computer, so I used our camcorder while it was playing on the TV. That would explain the moment when Eliza fusses halfway through! Somehow, that feels appropriate.)
CG was an academic when we married, a PhD student who hoped to become a professor one day. I saw my life stretching out before me as a professor's wife with all the leather bound books and elbow-patched trappings. I imagined myself pedaling around an idyllic college campus, wondering which young coeds had a crush on my husband.
When we got married, I was a dancer/Pilates instructor/massage therapist/grant writer. I worked 7 days a week and was often gone from the house, with my huge bag full of snacks, meals and changes of clothes, from 7 am to 10 pm. I rarely sat still.
We are not who we used to be.
Getting married is a promise. I didn't quite grasp that it was a promise to stay together as we each grow and change in ways no one could predict.
In a few short weeks, CG is leaving academia, after much tortured soul searching, for his new job in Virginia. He will not be a professor.
I haven't danced, really danced, in over 4 years. I often spend whole days in my 9 x 13 living room.
Last year, CG discovered flying. He now has his private pilot's license and is working toward his instrument rating. I never imagined this as part of our story. My ambivalence about his flying is something we work through. It is worth working through because I love him, pledged to stand beside him as he searches for meaning and joy in his life. It is worth working through because I've never seen him so happy as when he is talking about flying. Except maybe when he's actually flying.
Two years ago, I discovered blogging. I've always kept a journal, working through my thoughts and experiences through writing, wading through words looking for understanding and expression. CG sometimes struggles with this blog. He, like some other friends and family, is more private than me and isn't always comfortable with me sharing personals stories about our family with the interwebs. He's come to accept it because he knows how important it has become to me and wouldn't keep me from something that I care about.
We've come a long way, baby.
Seven years ago today, we were this young, impossibly happy couple who couldn't seem to stop grinning as we pranced our way through our choreographed first dance.
Every time I hear this song on the radio, I remember this day, seven years ago, when we promised to stay together. To support one another. To grow together.
Happy Anniversary, CG.
Let's stay together.
(I couldn't figure out how to get the video onto my computer, so I used our camcorder while it was playing on the TV. That would explain the moment when Eliza fusses halfway through! Somehow, that feels appropriate.)
4/29/09
Aaaaalllllll the girls were dancing
Today is International Dance Day.
It is also Zoe's third birthday (but since we celebrated it over a week ago, we mostly celebrated International Dance Day instead).
Always start with a saggy butt shot, I say.
(shhhh don't tell anyone but I think I may make it past this day, the last day that I really, really didn't want to give birth.)
It is also Zoe's third birthday (but since we celebrated it over a week ago, we mostly celebrated International Dance Day instead).
Always start with a saggy butt shot, I say.
(shhhh don't tell anyone but I think I may make it past this day, the last day that I really, really didn't want to give birth.)
2/22/09
Traitor
Back when I was dancing, my body betrayed me on a regular basis.
By the time I was 20, I had already begun my long list of injuries; some were passing issues, some would prove to last many years. In my twenties, I was diligent about going to physical therapy and hoarded all my spare tea-shop tips for massages and chiropractic visits. I regularly stuck various body parts in ice baths, moaning and screeching through the painful part, about 5 minutes in, when it's not just uncomfortable or itchy but every instinct screams at you to GET OUT OF THE ICE OR YOU WILL DIE. I wrapped joints in tape, rubbed sinus-clearing balms on muscles and, when all else failed, I reluctantly rested.
All the while, I talked to my body. And not very nicely.
The injured parts heard from me in imaginative expletives. I hated my hips for their restrictions, their unforgivable "early arthritis", and I let them know it. My feet were never good enough: my arches too low; my toes, the wrong alignment. I thought it was my body's fault; it was purposefully holding me back, making me miserable. I knew it wasn't helpful to be so mad at my poor body, of which I asked so much, but I didn't know where else to aim my anger and frustration over not being the dancer I wanted to be. I knew I would never be superstar great and that, deep down, is what I wanted to be. In my disappointment, it was helpful to have something tangible to blame, even if it was my very flesh and blood.
When I stopped dancing, at age 30, it was a bittersweet relief. I had made it to a point where I was dancing with choreographers that I had dreamed about 10 years prior, but the price I'd paid was steep. I woke up most days and silently took inventory: how was my fractured foot, my achilles tendonitis, my plantar fascitis, my worn knee cartilage, my arthritic hip, my bulging spinal discs, my torn rotator cuff, my whiplash? My injuries were beginning to catch up with me, with longer and longer periods of physical misery.
Some where along the line, it finally occurred to me that perhaps it was not my body that was betraying me but the other way around.
When I immediately got pregnant with Zoe, my body entered a whole new realm. I was starving and exhausted all the time and wound up gaining over 50 pounds. I tried to let go and let my body do what it needed to do, to be forgiving of its new contours and understanding of its new needs and dimensions. After years of abusing my body (in more ways than one), this was a challenge. But the pregnancy was relatively easy and pleasant and she turned out to a relatively easy and pleasant baby. I became subconsciously convinced that these two things were related.
Now I am continually astounded by how different the same body can be in two different pregnancies. If I was starving and tired and pleasantly slow and introspective last time, this time I'm a crazy person; hungry and upbeat one minute, green under the gills and morose the next. I have calf cramps and heartburn and digestive issues a mile long. Lima Bean's been swirling and kicking me fiercely for weeks now and sometimes does an all over spazz that I fear is her having a seizure in there. (Whatever you do DON'T GOOGLE "IN UTERO SEIZURE". Dear God. My doctor was only slightly more helpful: "In general, all movement is good..." PHEW "...Of course, there's no way to tell if your baby's having seizures in there so if she comes out and has them, then we'll know." GEE THANKS. "I mean, it could just mean she'll be a crazy, rambunctious kid." YOU CAN SHUT UP NOW.)
After being fairly forgiving of myself when I was pregnant with Zoe, I'm now finding myself back in my dangerous old routine. I am sporadically angry at this body; my body but also, sadly, HER body, since hers is inextricable from mine at the moment. In weak, petty moments, I find myself wondering if she's "doing this on purpose", making me sick (yes, my nausea, dizziness and general feeling of suckitude has returned in this last week, now that I'm in my third trimester). I catch myself labelling my poor defenseless unborn child as difficult; I secretly wonder if the unpleasantness of this pregnancy is an early announcement of what she'll be like once she's out here with us (my OB/GYN certainly didn't help with that now did he?). I don't want to treat her like she is an injury I can berate or to blame her for the days of misery from this pregnancy but I sometimes feel like I'm fighting a losing internal battle.
Lima Bean doesn't deserve that blame. Just like my poor old body didn't deserve any blame for its aches and pains and limitations after years of hard work and impossible expectations. She is my family, she is blameless, she is deserving of love and forgiveness. We both are.
I know that motherhood has changed me in so many ways. I hope that I can change in this way too: no more blame for this poor body who has served me so very well. And no blame for this little babe tucked somewhere behind my navel and above my bladder, who certainly doesn't mean to make me miserable.
By the time I was 20, I had already begun my long list of injuries; some were passing issues, some would prove to last many years. In my twenties, I was diligent about going to physical therapy and hoarded all my spare tea-shop tips for massages and chiropractic visits. I regularly stuck various body parts in ice baths, moaning and screeching through the painful part, about 5 minutes in, when it's not just uncomfortable or itchy but every instinct screams at you to GET OUT OF THE ICE OR YOU WILL DIE. I wrapped joints in tape, rubbed sinus-clearing balms on muscles and, when all else failed, I reluctantly rested.
All the while, I talked to my body. And not very nicely.
The injured parts heard from me in imaginative expletives. I hated my hips for their restrictions, their unforgivable "early arthritis", and I let them know it. My feet were never good enough: my arches too low; my toes, the wrong alignment. I thought it was my body's fault; it was purposefully holding me back, making me miserable. I knew it wasn't helpful to be so mad at my poor body, of which I asked so much, but I didn't know where else to aim my anger and frustration over not being the dancer I wanted to be. I knew I would never be superstar great and that, deep down, is what I wanted to be. In my disappointment, it was helpful to have something tangible to blame, even if it was my very flesh and blood.
When I stopped dancing, at age 30, it was a bittersweet relief. I had made it to a point where I was dancing with choreographers that I had dreamed about 10 years prior, but the price I'd paid was steep. I woke up most days and silently took inventory: how was my fractured foot, my achilles tendonitis, my plantar fascitis, my worn knee cartilage, my arthritic hip, my bulging spinal discs, my torn rotator cuff, my whiplash? My injuries were beginning to catch up with me, with longer and longer periods of physical misery.
Some where along the line, it finally occurred to me that perhaps it was not my body that was betraying me but the other way around.
When I immediately got pregnant with Zoe, my body entered a whole new realm. I was starving and exhausted all the time and wound up gaining over 50 pounds. I tried to let go and let my body do what it needed to do, to be forgiving of its new contours and understanding of its new needs and dimensions. After years of abusing my body (in more ways than one), this was a challenge. But the pregnancy was relatively easy and pleasant and she turned out to a relatively easy and pleasant baby. I became subconsciously convinced that these two things were related.
Now I am continually astounded by how different the same body can be in two different pregnancies. If I was starving and tired and pleasantly slow and introspective last time, this time I'm a crazy person; hungry and upbeat one minute, green under the gills and morose the next. I have calf cramps and heartburn and digestive issues a mile long. Lima Bean's been swirling and kicking me fiercely for weeks now and sometimes does an all over spazz that I fear is her having a seizure in there. (Whatever you do DON'T GOOGLE "IN UTERO SEIZURE". Dear God. My doctor was only slightly more helpful: "In general, all movement is good..." PHEW "...Of course, there's no way to tell if your baby's having seizures in there so if she comes out and has them, then we'll know." GEE THANKS. "I mean, it could just mean she'll be a crazy, rambunctious kid." YOU CAN SHUT UP NOW.)
After being fairly forgiving of myself when I was pregnant with Zoe, I'm now finding myself back in my dangerous old routine. I am sporadically angry at this body; my body but also, sadly, HER body, since hers is inextricable from mine at the moment. In weak, petty moments, I find myself wondering if she's "doing this on purpose", making me sick (yes, my nausea, dizziness and general feeling of suckitude has returned in this last week, now that I'm in my third trimester). I catch myself labelling my poor defenseless unborn child as difficult; I secretly wonder if the unpleasantness of this pregnancy is an early announcement of what she'll be like once she's out here with us (my OB/GYN certainly didn't help with that now did he?). I don't want to treat her like she is an injury I can berate or to blame her for the days of misery from this pregnancy but I sometimes feel like I'm fighting a losing internal battle.
Lima Bean doesn't deserve that blame. Just like my poor old body didn't deserve any blame for its aches and pains and limitations after years of hard work and impossible expectations. She is my family, she is blameless, she is deserving of love and forgiveness. We both are.
I know that motherhood has changed me in so many ways. I hope that I can change in this way too: no more blame for this poor body who has served me so very well. And no blame for this little babe tucked somewhere behind my navel and above my bladder, who certainly doesn't mean to make me miserable.
12/11/08
Dance party
Last night:
I am not as brave as you all think! I chose a blouse-y dress (some might say "muu muu") that maybe would have hid the bump a few weeks ago but these days? NOT SO MUCH. But it was a treat to be out on the town, CG looked so dapper in a three piece suit (What is it about vests on men? I LOVE THEM.) and I was comfortable. Well, about as comfortable as I could be in high heels, on a concrete floor, in a Clockwork Orange-y former power station-turned circus cabaret club complete with nearly nekkid ladies hanging in sheer fabric slings from the ceiling. Add in the loud music and young hipsters drinking all around me and, well, I felt pretty darn wrinkly and shrivelled and yet BLIMPLIKE. It was strange to be without a cocktail in my hand and I had no choice but to accept the forcible offering of a mouthful of cotton candy from the bosom of a woman (?) dressed as Marie Antoinette (don't ask). Also, I have apparently forgotten how to make small talk, witty banter, or even hold BASIC CONVERSATIONS. Oy.
But the only really sad part was: THERE WAS NO DANCING.
I watched the women hanging from the ceiling and later, the circus women dancing in a circle and I felt a pang. I used to do this. Well not this. But something like it. I used to be fit and nimble and OH MY GOD MY HEAD JUST WENT TO "JACK BE NIMBLE". It's way past my bedtime.
This morning:
I got up with Zoe and she wanted a dance party before breakfast. She chose"1234" by Feist, her current favorite dance music. And then she wanted to see the 1234 video on YouTube, the one with the "dancers and tumblers and lady in the blue dress". We watched it and tears sprung from my eyes. I love that video. I want to be in that video, to crawl inside and live in that video. I want to move like that again, be apart of something like that again. Dance.
So we danced.
(By this point, I was tired and Zoe had moved on to "Shut Up and Let Me Go" by the Ting Tings, or, as she calls it, "the stomping song". [Okay, NOT the best choice of lyrics for those of us who hope to instill manners in our children. However, I have held firm and not introduced Zoe to one of my current favorites: the expletive-happy Kate Nash.] Notice also that there is a "baby" having a nap under the blanket on the floor, a toy store threw up behind our leather chair and there is a distinct possibility that my daughter has a shot at starring in "Breakin' 12: Electric Poopaloo".)
I am not as brave as you all think! I chose a blouse-y dress (some might say "muu muu") that maybe would have hid the bump a few weeks ago but these days? NOT SO MUCH. But it was a treat to be out on the town, CG looked so dapper in a three piece suit (What is it about vests on men? I LOVE THEM.) and I was comfortable. Well, about as comfortable as I could be in high heels, on a concrete floor, in a Clockwork Orange-y former power station-turned circus cabaret club complete with nearly nekkid ladies hanging in sheer fabric slings from the ceiling. Add in the loud music and young hipsters drinking all around me and, well, I felt pretty darn wrinkly and shrivelled and yet BLIMPLIKE. It was strange to be without a cocktail in my hand and I had no choice but to accept the forcible offering of a mouthful of cotton candy from the bosom of a woman (?) dressed as Marie Antoinette (don't ask). Also, I have apparently forgotten how to make small talk, witty banter, or even hold BASIC CONVERSATIONS. Oy.
But the only really sad part was: THERE WAS NO DANCING.
I watched the women hanging from the ceiling and later, the circus women dancing in a circle and I felt a pang. I used to do this. Well not this. But something like it. I used to be fit and nimble and OH MY GOD MY HEAD JUST WENT TO "JACK BE NIMBLE". It's way past my bedtime.
This morning:
I got up with Zoe and she wanted a dance party before breakfast. She chose"1234" by Feist, her current favorite dance music. And then she wanted to see the 1234 video on YouTube, the one with the "dancers and tumblers and lady in the blue dress". We watched it and tears sprung from my eyes. I love that video. I want to be in that video, to crawl inside and live in that video. I want to move like that again, be apart of something like that again. Dance.
So we danced.
(By this point, I was tired and Zoe had moved on to "Shut Up and Let Me Go" by the Ting Tings, or, as she calls it, "the stomping song". [Okay, NOT the best choice of lyrics for those of us who hope to instill manners in our children. However, I have held firm and not introduced Zoe to one of my current favorites: the expletive-happy Kate Nash.] Notice also that there is a "baby" having a nap under the blanket on the floor, a toy store threw up behind our leather chair and there is a distinct possibility that my daughter has a shot at starring in "Breakin' 12: Electric Poopaloo".)
2/4/08
Mama Loves Disco.
At 11 am on Saturday morning, I was despairing. CG was clearly still sick and taking an early nap. Z seemed to be feeling better but was still fussy, didn't want to read books until I put them away and then she was all "BOOTCH! BOOOOTTTCCcHHHHH!" *repeatrepeatrepeat*, and nothing was right. All signs pointed to us missing an event we (and by "we", I mean ME) had been looking forward to for weeks: Baby Loves Disco. (I mean, why live in LA if not to partake in such things? Why else would I deal with the smog and the silicone and the traffic and the Botoxed, perma-tanned, Stepford weathermen?? MAMA WANT DISCO.)
As I resigned myself to the thought that Z was just too fussy to inflict on the breeding, discoing hipsters in Hollywood, I started blabbing to her about how our friends T, T, and D were going to be there. She paused her whining for a moment. Then I mentioned there would be dancing. She immediately stood up and did a little knee bounce/shoulder shimmy that made her mama proud.
With that inspiration, I threw her craziest clothes on her, stuffed some snacks in my purse and ran out the door.
And a disco star (with leg warmers, no less) was born.
Okay, not really. She pretty much clung to me the whole time, barely tolerated any time standing on her own two feet and only "danced" if a tantrum foot stomp can be considered part of the hustle. Plus, my back is still sore from bouncing her solid little toddler self around the dance floor for two hours.
But I will take what I can get. Mama does love her disco.
As I resigned myself to the thought that Z was just too fussy to inflict on the breeding, discoing hipsters in Hollywood, I started blabbing to her about how our friends T, T, and D were going to be there. She paused her whining for a moment. Then I mentioned there would be dancing. She immediately stood up and did a little knee bounce/shoulder shimmy that made her mama proud.
With that inspiration, I threw her craziest clothes on her, stuffed some snacks in my purse and ran out the door.
And a disco star (with leg warmers, no less) was born.
Okay, not really. She pretty much clung to me the whole time, barely tolerated any time standing on her own two feet and only "danced" if a tantrum foot stomp can be considered part of the hustle. Plus, my back is still sore from bouncing her solid little toddler self around the dance floor for two hours.
But I will take what I can get. Mama does love her disco.
1/16/08
The post-dance post.
When unpacking (yes, FINALLY), I found that I needed to get rid of some old clothes to make room for the Christmas bounty. This is, essentially, a good problem. But what it means is that I am taking a hard look at a lot of pre-pregnancy clothes and finally accepting that I should get rid of them. Even though I love them, even though they are in good shape and barely worn, even though I can kinda squeeze myself into them. The fact is that many of them simply don't look good on me anymore. And that's because my post-pregnancy body is also my post-dancing body and I can't seem to wrap my head around that latter bit.
I started dancing when I was 5 and didn't stop (save for some involuntary, injury-related sidelining here and there) until I was 33 (and about to get pregnant, move, buy a house, change my whole effing life). So for most of my life, my body has been my instrument and I wasobsessed very, very interested in it working well. This meant I not only took dance class and rehearsed but also spent hours at the gym and taught Pilates and took long hikes on the weekend and biked around the city and took yoga and and AND. And I had the small waist, strong legs and unwavering, unquestioning body confidence to show for it.
Focusing on the utility of my body was a great thing. It got me out of the downward spiral of disordered eating that is rampant in the dance world (and held sway in my head in college); it made me strong inside and out. If a piece I was working on was really fast paced and intense, I went to the gym and did cardio. If I had to lift people and do a lot of partnering (this being modern dance, I was required not only to be lifted but also to lift my fellow dancers, men included), I went to the gym and did a lot of weights. If I was injured, I went to the pool and did deep water aerobics with the grannies. It was all about getting to the next show as strong and healthy as possible.
Obviously, my big issue now is: what do I do now that there is no "next show"?
I'm feeling sad about my body (perhaps 'vain' would be the word?) for the first time in a long time (not since I was 100 pounds and felt disgustingly fat. Ah, GOOD TIMES.). I miss my old abs. I miss my old butt. I miss my old legs. I feel saggy and lumpy and I'm NOT used to it. 20 months after Z's birth, I still can't in good conscience wear a few of my old clothes that I love dearly (I'm looking at YOU, clingy brown Ella Moss dress and YOU worn-twice Joe's jeans.)
My body has changed and it's not realistic to imagine that I will ever be in the kind of shape I was Before again. Before, I used to spend hours a day engaged in intense physical activity. Today, I try to do something physical every day. When I can, I go to the gym or use the Pilates equipment at the studio where I work part-time. When I can't, I walk Z and the dog, I do a DVD in our living room during naptime, I blast Justin Timberlake and dance around the room with Z watching me, amazed (or possibly wondering what brand of crazy her mom is and if it's genetic or, worse, CONTAGIOUS.).
I am getting settled into my post-dance life. It's a relief to not have to constantly manage the cycle of physical pain and injuries. This post-dance life is SO full. But my post-dance body is proving to be a little harder to adjust to.
I started dancing when I was 5 and didn't stop (save for some involuntary, injury-related sidelining here and there) until I was 33 (and about to get pregnant, move, buy a house, change my whole effing life). So for most of my life, my body has been my instrument and I was
Focusing on the utility of my body was a great thing. It got me out of the downward spiral of disordered eating that is rampant in the dance world (and held sway in my head in college); it made me strong inside and out. If a piece I was working on was really fast paced and intense, I went to the gym and did cardio. If I had to lift people and do a lot of partnering (this being modern dance, I was required not only to be lifted but also to lift my fellow dancers, men included), I went to the gym and did a lot of weights. If I was injured, I went to the pool and did deep water aerobics with the grannies. It was all about getting to the next show as strong and healthy as possible.
Obviously, my big issue now is: what do I do now that there is no "next show"?
I'm feeling sad about my body (perhaps 'vain' would be the word?) for the first time in a long time (not since I was 100 pounds and felt disgustingly fat. Ah, GOOD TIMES.). I miss my old abs. I miss my old butt. I miss my old legs. I feel saggy and lumpy and I'm NOT used to it. 20 months after Z's birth, I still can't in good conscience wear a few of my old clothes that I love dearly (I'm looking at YOU, clingy brown Ella Moss dress and YOU worn-twice Joe's jeans.)
My body has changed and it's not realistic to imagine that I will ever be in the kind of shape I was Before again. Before, I used to spend hours a day engaged in intense physical activity. Today, I try to do something physical every day. When I can, I go to the gym or use the Pilates equipment at the studio where I work part-time. When I can't, I walk Z and the dog, I do a DVD in our living room during naptime, I blast Justin Timberlake and dance around the room with Z watching me, amazed (or possibly wondering what brand of crazy her mom is and if it's genetic or, worse, CONTAGIOUS.).
I am getting settled into my post-dance life. It's a relief to not have to constantly manage the cycle of physical pain and injuries. This post-dance life is SO full. But my post-dance body is proving to be a little harder to adjust to.
1/11/08
Ask and ye shall receive.
I apparently upset a loyal reader with my bait and switch title yesterday. So, in honor of my dear friend Sas, I will get down to the really important business of discussing the Clueless But Hopeful Mama list of the Ten Greatest Dance Movies of All Time (with bonus points added for kissing.)
1. Fast Forward. This is, hands down, the best dance movie ever made (*very straight face, don't EVEN mess.*). Eight Ohio teenagers leave their hometown for big bad New York City and the famed "shoot out" contest. There is a beautiful, talented man as their fearless leader (Wherefore art thou Don Franklin??), romance (bonus points!), a memorable sweatshirt-and-Chuck-Taylors number, and -best of all- dance wars. Could you ask for more? No, no you could not. If your video store does not have this in stock, beg. Or I will send you my betamax tape of it.
2. Dirty Dancing. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this movie and it still manages to capture my attention. The music, the unforgettable lines ("Nobody puts Baby in the corner", "I carried the watermelon", etc. etc. etc.), the HOT SWEATY ROMANCE WITH PATRICK SWAYZE (BONUS POINTS! BONUS POINTS! BONUS POINTS!). I may have to go slip that DVD on right now....
3. Footloose. Kevin Bacon dancing in tight jeans in a warehouse. I rest my case. (A single bonus point for some romance because Lori Singer totally bugs me.)
4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Who knew Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt could dance (decently)? Cute movie, not a lot of romance but great, great, GREAT 80's fashion and vocab. Put your ponytail to the side and slide on some leg warmers!
5. Step Up. Yum Yum YUM, Channing Tatum can dance and he's so deLISH that you totally forgive any lame plot issues or wooden acting (Rachel Griffiths looks like she's sleep walking.). So worth it for the dancing and romance (EXTRA bonus points for real life romance between the co-stars!).
6. Dirty Dancing Havana Nights. There a cameo from Patrick Swayze, there's some great dancing and the plot actually doesn't totally suck (for a dance movie, that's saying a lot.) Plus, Diego Luna is a bit young for CBHM but he's SUPER TASTY nonetheless. This would have been WAY higher on the list if THEY ACTUALLY KISSED MUCH. Is it too much to ask for a little bit of kissing?? Sheesh.
7. Flashdance. I'm sorry to say that J.Lo has totally ruined this movie for me. And I'm still a bit bitter that they had a dance double for Jennifer Beals. Either get an actress who can actually dance or don't do a dance movie, you know? It's obvious to anyone with a brain that this is a different person dancing and that is why I am also pissed at Save the Last Dance and will make it share the number 7 spot. I love you Julia Stiles and Sean Patrick Thomas and the plot didn't totally suck but I hated seeing a dance double.
8.Center Stage. In honor of you, Ms. Sas, I'll give this movie it's own spot, even though they use a dance double for Z Saldana (Hey Z, great name, too bad you can't dance!). There IS fun dancing (Susan Stroman's choreography is so cinematic), some romance (Sasha Redetsky IS yummy), and BIG bonus points for giving a role to Ethan Stiefel. But the plot, the acting.... ug. They could have made it sooo much better.
9. White Nights. Holy crap! I can't believe I've gotten this far without Misha! Barishnikov is a legend for a reason and this movie is only the tip of the huge iceberg. Plus it's got Gregory Hines, Isabella Rosselini and Helen Mirren. But it's a bit too serious (NOT ENOUGH KISSING). So #9 it is. (Sorry Misha! Love you!)
10. Oh crap- there are so many movies left! Saturday Night Fever, Breakin', You Got Served, Fame. I'm afraid you will all have to settle for honorable mentions because this spot goes to..... Billy Elliot. Now, there is no romance. BUT. There is AMAZING dancing from a KID, great acting, interesting plot, and a total feel good ending. Jamie Bell will always have my heart.
Well, there you have it. If you've read this far, you deserve a little reward.
Here's an old pic of Z, who is being indoctrinated into the Dirty Dancing hysteria early.
(Oh. My. God. This was taken when she was almost 6 months old, nothing but rolls of pudge and couldn't sit up on her own. My widdle baaayyby!)
1. Fast Forward. This is, hands down, the best dance movie ever made (*very straight face, don't EVEN mess.*). Eight Ohio teenagers leave their hometown for big bad New York City and the famed "shoot out" contest. There is a beautiful, talented man as their fearless leader (Wherefore art thou Don Franklin??), romance (bonus points!), a memorable sweatshirt-and-Chuck-Taylors number, and -best of all- dance wars. Could you ask for more? No, no you could not. If your video store does not have this in stock, beg. Or I will send you my betamax tape of it.
2. Dirty Dancing. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this movie and it still manages to capture my attention. The music, the unforgettable lines ("Nobody puts Baby in the corner", "I carried the watermelon", etc. etc. etc.), the HOT SWEATY ROMANCE WITH PATRICK SWAYZE (BONUS POINTS! BONUS POINTS! BONUS POINTS!). I may have to go slip that DVD on right now....
3. Footloose. Kevin Bacon dancing in tight jeans in a warehouse. I rest my case. (A single bonus point for some romance because Lori Singer totally bugs me.)
4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Who knew Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt could dance (decently)? Cute movie, not a lot of romance but great, great, GREAT 80's fashion and vocab. Put your ponytail to the side and slide on some leg warmers!
5. Step Up. Yum Yum YUM, Channing Tatum can dance and he's so deLISH that you totally forgive any lame plot issues or wooden acting (Rachel Griffiths looks like she's sleep walking.). So worth it for the dancing and romance (EXTRA bonus points for real life romance between the co-stars!).
6. Dirty Dancing Havana Nights. There a cameo from Patrick Swayze, there's some great dancing and the plot actually doesn't totally suck (for a dance movie, that's saying a lot.) Plus, Diego Luna is a bit young for CBHM but he's SUPER TASTY nonetheless. This would have been WAY higher on the list if THEY ACTUALLY KISSED MUCH. Is it too much to ask for a little bit of kissing?? Sheesh.
7. Flashdance. I'm sorry to say that J.Lo has totally ruined this movie for me. And I'm still a bit bitter that they had a dance double for Jennifer Beals. Either get an actress who can actually dance or don't do a dance movie, you know? It's obvious to anyone with a brain that this is a different person dancing and that is why I am also pissed at Save the Last Dance and will make it share the number 7 spot. I love you Julia Stiles and Sean Patrick Thomas and the plot didn't totally suck but I hated seeing a dance double.
8.Center Stage. In honor of you, Ms. Sas, I'll give this movie it's own spot, even though they use a dance double for Z Saldana (Hey Z, great name, too bad you can't dance!). There IS fun dancing (Susan Stroman's choreography is so cinematic), some romance (Sasha Redetsky IS yummy), and BIG bonus points for giving a role to Ethan Stiefel. But the plot, the acting.... ug. They could have made it sooo much better.
9. White Nights. Holy crap! I can't believe I've gotten this far without Misha! Barishnikov is a legend for a reason and this movie is only the tip of the huge iceberg. Plus it's got Gregory Hines, Isabella Rosselini and Helen Mirren. But it's a bit too serious (NOT ENOUGH KISSING). So #9 it is. (Sorry Misha! Love you!)
10. Oh crap- there are so many movies left! Saturday Night Fever, Breakin', You Got Served, Fame. I'm afraid you will all have to settle for honorable mentions because this spot goes to..... Billy Elliot. Now, there is no romance. BUT. There is AMAZING dancing from a KID, great acting, interesting plot, and a total feel good ending. Jamie Bell will always have my heart.
Well, there you have it. If you've read this far, you deserve a little reward.
Here's an old pic of Z, who is being indoctrinated into the Dirty Dancing hysteria early.
(Oh. My. God. This was taken when she was almost 6 months old, nothing but rolls of pudge and couldn't sit up on her own. My widdle baaayyby!)