Loud Shoes + Twirly Skirts

It’s beginning. I have a kid in organized sports. 

Last night Elle started ballet/tap dance classes as a gift from her Grandpa + Jamma. For a week now she has been asking to wear her “loud shoes” around the house but I kept them successfully hidden from sight because#hardwoodfloors. The anticipation of last night was high, for both of us. 

We pulled up to the dance studio a few minutes before 6pm. Usually at this time we’d be doing baths with all three kids and settling down for the night. Instead I walk in though the front doors and instantly enter the craziness of this dance world. 

Teenage girls sprawled in the hallway doing homework before their hip hop class starts. Ten year old girls in their jazz shoes excitedly talking to their dance teachers. Elle and I walk through the maze to the front desk to sign in. While filling out the registration forms Elle stands by my legs, wide-eyed and taking it all in. We walk to the 3/4 year old room. Number 1 is written above the door. Two little girls come up to us, eager to tell us they were studio 1 last year but now that they’re older, they’re in studio 2. So dang sweet. I walk her into the room to meet her two teachers: one woman with a permanent straight face and a younger bright-eyed teenage girl.

“Does she need her tap shoes today” I ask, feeling like I should know these things. 
“She’ll come out and get you halfway through the class to change into them” replies the very serious teacher. 

Oh. 

So I’m staying then?

Feeling a little stupid, since I thought I’d be dropping her off for an hour every week, I say bye to Elle and head back to the hallway where dozens of parents are standing and chatting away. 

It hits me, yet again. I’m a mom. To a child in a sport. Am I old enough to already be in this stage? Wasn’t I just the little girl in a soccer uniform being dropped off by her mom? 

Parenthood is so weird. 

I find a corner to stand in where I can see through the gallery window to Eleanor sitting on the mat with a few other girls in matching red leotards. Eleanor spots me and screams “MAMA!” and gets up to run over to me. The teacher brings her back to the mat and I immediately feel guilty for distracting her. For the rest of the session I make sure to hide from sight and just steal glances when I can. 

It seems like all the other parents know each other and are chatting away about their summers. I’m going to be spending an hour a week with these women over the next year. It feels like I should make friends but I’m not quite sure how to interject myself into the conversations. I thought insecurity and awkwardness would fade once I got “older”. I never anticipated feeling this way as a mom, yet here I am trying to decide who seems the friendliest to approach and what to talk about once I get brave enough to introduce myself. Sometimes I have serious imposter syndrome with this whole parenting thing. 

I find another mom in the corner and say hi. Her daughter is 3 too. Vivian. It’s her first time at dance. We both talk about how we’re nervous our child would be the crazy one doing twirls in the corner while all the other girls stand in attention. After small talk for ten minutes about her other kids and if she’s from the area, dance class is over and all the little girls come pouring out of the studio. 

On the car ride home Eleanor chats away from the back seat. 

“Mom I saw you in the window watching me. I said ‘HIII!’ Did you hear me?”
“I looooooove my twirly skirt.”
“That was a special trrrrreat, huh mom?!” 
“Can I wear my loud shoes to bed?” 

Oh how I love this age. 

We head home where Jude is already sleeping (weird) and Elle quietly changes into her pjs (sans tap shoes) before climbing in bed. Jeffrey and I collapse on the couch and just stare at each other. How did she grow up so fast? How did WE grow up so fast? 

It’s strange. To be in this place where I’m constantly stopped by older women at the grocery store reminding me to “cherish it all”, and to “hold them tight because they grow up so fast” while I simultaneously juggle three kids in the cart and tell Elle for the tenth time that she can’t have that candy. Most of this season is me feeling so exhausted. Like my whole day is calculating how much time is left until the next nap, or until bedtime. I know those sweet ladies are on to something though. Even though the days are long, I some how now have a child in an organized sport. She was just a baby on my chest a minute ago, and now...well she’s tapping away in the next room as I write this, in her “loud shoes”.