I am not a dance mom

I am not a dance-mom. I am a mom. I dance. I have supported my eldest daughter in dancing for  eleven years. But I am not a dance-mom. It's not good or bad, just a statement. I came to this realization one Sunday, when sitting for hours on the most uncomfortable wooden benches at a dance sport competition had sucked all the energy out of me.

You wouldn’t recognize a dance-mom by just her looks. The shape and size don’t matter. Some are skinny, in high heels, with fashion magazine clothes and glossy make-up. Some may be small and boyish, in torn jeans and T-shirt. Others may be plump, long woolen sweater wearing, needing a haircut, down to earth women.

You have to look for the other signs.

They are present at all the competitions, even twice a month if necessary. Their dedication impresses me. This was my first competition this year.

When they get together, they first chat with the coaches. Then they share the latest news with each other. They know exactly which couples have quit dancing, which place each couple is in the ranking table, who has changed partners or who has a new dress. I know my daughter got a new partner, but I still may get his name wrong, I believe it starts with R or may-be S.

When the couples are dancing, the dance-moms stand next to the floor stretching their bodies almost to the point that if they stretched some more they would fall over. Or they clutch tightly to their cameras or I-Pads to record every move, facial expressions and drop of sweat. The super moms have lungs strong enough to shout their child’s name through the booming music. I straighten myself on the bench and clap when my daughter finishes each dance in her finals.

In between the rounds these moms can shoot hairspray on a go or pin hair from a distance. From their bags they can pull out a pair of scissors to cut off loose feathers, a needle to fix a ribbon, or a glue bottle to add some sparkly stones. And when they see someone from the judges’ table with a piece of paper in her hand, they sprint to get the freshest results. I guard my daughter’s bag and hand her a water bottle when she comes.

I still have no clue how the judges can give different points to all those amazing couples, whose feet don’t even touch the floor when they dance, or who can bend their bodies against human anatomy, or whose spectacular looks may compete with the sun. I can’t judge others. I have eyes only for my daughter. She is the most beautiful woman on the floor, and the years of practice allow her to perform with admirable grace and strength.  I am not a dance-mom, but I am a loving and proud mom of a Dancer.

I am glad someone else has taken photos of my daughter.