My daughter is in a summer camp program for which she gets to choose a different theme camp each week. One week it was Junior Lifeguard, for example. This week she was in Irish Dance. At the end of each week, the various camps (there are usually four different themes each week) gather in the auditorium for a recap and/or performance. My daughter asked me to come to the performance today, so I added some extra time to my lunch hour so that I could attend. However, I need to tell you about the fun events before the big dance recital.
A few days ago, the kid announced that she needed a black skirt for the recital. Done. Her fall/winter clothes are packed away but I dug around in the basement and found the perfect black skirt. "Now I need a white, orange, or green shirt," she stated. She has plenty of white shirts so I figured we were in good shape.
Then two days ago she made a new announcement: "I need some Irish dance music so that I can practice."
"No problem," I said. I went to the basement to dig through my old CDs. I am a fan of The Chieftains, so I knew I could find one of their CDs in the pile somewhere. Instead, I happened to find an old CD I'd forgotten I had in my collection. The title? "Irish Dance Music." I am not lying. I handed it to her and she popped it into her CD player.
"These songs are too fast," she announced. Are you shitting me? You asked for Irish Dance Music, I come up with a CD called Irish Dance Music, and it does not meet your needs?! I didn't say that, though. I just bit my tongue and walked away.
But wait, it gets better. At 9:00 last night (a full half-hour after her bedtime) I heard this: "Mom! I need jazz shoes for tomorrow!"
"You don't have jazz shoes. And no, I am not buying jazz shoes for a one-week summer camp program."
She frowned. "But everyone in the group has jazz shoes!"
"Seriously? Everyone? I find that hard to believe." She let me know of her displeasure by stomping back to her bedroom.
This morning, I told her dad about the episode. "Apparently, all God's chillins have jazz shoes, " I explained.
"I have jazz hands - does that help?" He walked into our daughter's bedroom, still in his pajamas, and demonstrated his jazz hands. She was not impressed. Mornings are not her thing, as you may have noticed.
On the way to camp this morning, the topic of jazz shoes came up again and once again I put the kibosh on any sort of shoe purchase. Then she gave me some parenting advice related to our morning routine (so helpful!). "When I'm good, you don't tell me I'm good," she said. "Like when I get ready on time you don't say I'm good, you just say, 'Why can't it be this way every day?'" So, if I understand correctly, she would like to receive effusive praise for doing something that virtually every human being on the planet is expected to do: put clothes on.
"Okay, thanks for the input," I told her.
Anyway, I did indeed attend the recital today. The girls did a good job. (What was my kid wearing on her feet? Some ballet slippers the instructor had let her borrow. As far as I could tell, not a single kid was wearing jazz shoes.) Next week she is signed up for Hip Hop Dance camp. If there is such a thing as "hip hop shoes," so help me, Hannah . . .