Confessions of an Ungirlie-Mom

I'm not sure if I could have botched Spitfire's ballet recital event any worse than I did, but I will undoubtedly try again next year--I may not be girlie, but I am definitely bull-headed. On Tuesday night, I am preparing to take both kiddos with me to the dress rehearsal, for which I have decided that putting Spitfire's hair up in a bun consitutes enough of the "dress" part of rehearsal for me. She is wearing her jeans and ballet shoes, and I am fine with that. Sadly, she is too (already she must be duplicating my un-girlieness). She hates sitting still for my amateurish attempt at a ballet bun and protests soulfully for the ten-minute procedure, then we are out the door. I have to wrestle Destruco into his seat since he does not appear to be interested in anything related to ballet, but finally, we are on our way. When we arrive, I am immediately aware that we have come to the wrong venue--and that's not due to keen intelligence--it's simply because there are no cars in the parking lot! This is when I get that sinking feeling in the stomach and begin to weakly tell Spitfire we have five minutes to find the right auditorium. I make calls but don't reach anyone, so we drive home. Spitfire first angrily announces she will not be going to recital tomorrow (we won't if I don't find out where it is, I say naughtily), but then decides that being able to release the thousand bobby pins from her hair is not such a bad thing. For once, I am happy for the attention span of a five-year-old--it is all water under the bridge now, and a story to tell.

On Wednesday night, I labor on the bun again. Spitfire says she has never been more bored and I tell her to hold still and we repeat this about a million times. When I am done, I discover that the bulk of my work is resting oddly on the right side of her head, but I rationalize this--who said a bun has to be in the center anyway? My friend who lives across the street is kind and says it looks fine. We are dressed and ready to go. Spitfire's good friend and neighbor is going with us, but we decide to leave Destructo at home this time with Dart Guy, who breathes a sigh of relief.

When we arrive, there is no parking so we leave the car in front of a nearby house and walk. Inside, I step triumphantly up to the check-in desk, two highly excited girls in tow beside me. And that's when I hear the tiny voice--a little girl's voice just to our left--she tells us that Spitfire has her outfit on backwards!! I examine Spitfire critically, with eyes glazed over from years of ungirlish behavior. I just don't see it, but get an afirmative, mirth-laced, sympathetic nod from the check-in lady. Unable to find the bathroom, I strip her down behind a large, wooden door, then go back to the desk. The show must go on, right? Spitfire dances with her good friend, smiles all around. I get down on my knees in the front to take pictures, shamelessly clicking away, bending this way and that to get a view. Dart Guy shows up with Destructo, announcing that he wouldn't miss watching his girl dance. He is our hero, as always. We both enjoy watching Spitfire being just a little girlie.