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2002-06-24 | 9:07 p.m.

I have an overwhelming desire right now to change the answering machine message so that it says, Hi. You have reached the home of Mark, Jeannette, and Sammi the cat. Please leave a message at the beep. Meow!

Yes, I'm ready to hide away again. Something happened that made me feel terrible. We saw the dance teacher at the grocery store. I had called her earlier in the day to ask for information about the new competitive dance team she's putting together for six- to nine-year-olds. She never invited Felony to join, never even considered her regardless of her talent, because of the level of parental involvement required.

I don't know how to feel. I'm trying not to cry. I want Felony to come to me and say, Mom, I want to do this more than anything in the world. If I can't do this, I'll just die! Please make this happen!"

But Felony is only six years old, and the only thing she feels that passionately about is Popsicles, costume jewelry, her favorite TV show, and anything else that is perfectly transitory. If I ask her, she'll say yeah, absolutely, I want to do it. But it is impossible to explain to her what a huge time commitment it would be.

So then I would have to become the bully. And I hate to bully them.

None of this would matter, of course, if I didn't worry that this might actually become something that could matter to Felony in the long run. (There is this little tiny campfire of hope in my mind that Felony could get a dance scholarship to college. I worry so much about paying for college that I want them to figure out something they can do to get a scholarship.) There are not many opportunities around here to do this kind of high-energy dancing, which she loves. But in order to do it, it has to be at this ridiculously demanding (overkill) level.

And if she can't be on the team, I'm not sure she should keep going in the regular class. Because sooner or later she's going to complain about how the team gets all the glory and she isn't on it.

I try to tell myself to just let it go, and letting go of it doesn't mean that I am fucking it all up. But it's hard not to feel like I'm fucking it all up. I mean, the teacher made it very clear that I was what is standing in Felony's way.

I know that too much of all this is about me. How much of it is me being competitive, saying I can do this, I can get her there, I can find the money, I can do the fundraising, because my daughter deserves to be there, too. How much of it is me living out my own childhood dreams through my daughter? But on the other hand, I've said it before and I'll say it again: If I sat around and waited for Felony to say she desperately wanted to do something, it wouldn't happen until she was 15 or 16, which is not impossible but a little late to be starting activities. And of course, if you're fat--not that Felony is, but who knows what might happen if I took her out of everything and waited until she expressed interest in something--you're totally screwed. You can't EVER catch up.

I wanted to take dance but by the time I figured out what I was missing, I was too old and too fat. Oh, who am I kidding? There was never any chance for me to take dance. We didn't have extra money, for one thing, and my mother worked 12 to 9 so she couldn't take me to lessons. And no babysitter was going to go to all that trouble. And besides, I was too old and too fat. (Not saying fat kids shouldn't dance, just that it's not as much fun if you can't keep up. When I was a kid, if I wasn't good at something, I didn't want to do it. End of story.)

Look at me, I'm all over the place. I guess I am slowly talking myself out of it. In the store I was feeling very defiant; very I-can-do-this. And then I think about all these other things that I really do believe. Such as? Such as little kids shouldn't have activities that eclipse all other activities (this would eat up three nights a week plus weekends during the competition season). They should have a chance to try out different things. There WILL be other opportunities for her. Just because she doesn't join the six-year-old competitive dance team doesn't mean she's going to become a heroin junkie. And just because she is good at dance doesn't mean that my whole existence should revolve around dance, too. I'm supposed to be writing a book, remember?

Then I think about that and feel guilty that I am putting my own dreams ahead of theirs. But they don't have any dreams yet! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

Most of all, I just hate hate HATE that the teacher never even considered her for the team because of ME. I mean, come on, why would I even want her to be on this team when that's the case? On the other hand, maybe being a parent is all about learning to stick your neck out for your kids. The teacher is willing to take her on now that I've talked to her about it. She was a little grudging about it, but that was more about me.

Oh, God. This sucks. Plus it doesn't escape me that the subject is completely stupid and banal. Ugh, who gives a fuck. But I don't want to be Miss Who Gives a Fuck all the time and have my kids end up indifferent to everything.

Fuck!

Yuck!

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