A poor excuse for a stage mom

I was standing on a poured concrete floor at the New York State Fairgrounds a couple of weeks ago when a couple of things became very clear to me: First, if it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t mine; second, I was way out of my league; and third, where drunken Irishmen stereotypes come from.

Concrete and I had a messy break-up in the late 1960s when, as a preschooler, I literally somersaulted down the basement stairs…a full story of them…and got a close-up look at the hard, gray stuff.

“Everyone calm down,” I remember my mother screaming. “Head wounds always bleed a lot.”
I figured it was a code for “She’s a goner. There’s nothing we can do, so there’s no sense in panicking her.”

I wondered at the Fairgrounds if concrete hadn’t gotten a taste for blood like the ’57 Chevy ?? in the Stephen King novel “Christine.” God knows I sure felt like something was pulling me toward the floor as the creeping fingers of pain started up my legs.

I wondered how I’d wound up standing there to begin with. Oh, yes. A sweet voice called one evening and said, “Would you…?” and I said, “Sure, why not?” My viral stupidity was relapsing, or my curiosity truly got the better of me.

All I had to do, I was told, was check off dancers as they appeared at my stage to compete. At first glance, it looked easy enough. You have a list of dances and a list of dancers who are supposed to dance in them. The dancers, mostly young ladies, would come up to check in and quietly take a seat beside the stage. You manage a couple of poster boards that show which dance is underway and which is being checked in.

Any moron could do this. I have to tell you, I am not just any moron.

For an hour before my turn, I stalked the woman who had the shift before me. She said it was her first time, too. She breezed around with the grace of a woodland pixie, checking and writing and coordinating dances with the judge.

One more detail: My predecessor was running this stage single-handedly; I had the help of my two daughters, one of whom is a six-year veteran at these events.

All of a sudden Stage Manager No. 1 said, “Shift’s over. You should be all set, right?” and disappeared. Suddenly, the music stopped, and girls wearing dresses embossed with colors that have no right being in the same room together began to swarm. Panic, something I usually am immune to, swept over me with the 20 to 40 pairs of feet that began running, kicking (God love your shins), pointing and spinning. Half of them fired questions at us, and the other half stood mute when we tried to get information out of them.

“Can I see your [competitor] number?”

“What is your name?”

“What school are you with?”

“Do you do the fast version or the slow version?”

If those girls knew the answers to any of these questions, they weren’t talking.

Dancer-daughter lined competitors up with the swiftness and efficiency of a Gestapo drill instructor. To my relief, the mute ones didn’t open up to her, either, and she spoke their language. Some of us don’t know a reel from a jig from a hornpipe from a set.

She later reported that being at a competition and not dancing was like being in the fifth ring of hell. I think the center was where I must have been. At least when the stage moms (and dads) showed up.

To be consistent in my ignorance, stage parenting is something else I know nothing else about. I drive the dancer, do her hair and makeup if asked and help her put on her dress. I carry stuff and clap when she performs. I may not know what she’s doing when she is on stage, but when I see her dance, I know she knows what she is doing, and I know she is amazing. That’s my job.

The stage parents had children who were dancing on other stages, preparing to dance on other stages, needed to change their shoes before leaving the other stages or having nervous breakdowns at other stages. Would I hold a dance, change a dance, do a dance, tie some laces, talk to the judge/musician, tell them the capital of Uzbekistan?

When about 25 of them attacked at once, I radioed for reinforcements (which were swift and sure, thank God).

After surviving the experience, I reflected on everything I’d gained from it, including a tremendous amount of respect for the people who organize such events.

Later that day, dancer daughter brought me some news.

“Mom, I want to take ballet.”

The Irishwoman in me prayed for a shot and a beer.

Reprinted courtesy Eagle Newspapers, Syracuse, New York.