Thursday, September 06, 2012

Dance, brat, brat

The Ganapati celebrations in the society have mandated that the children participate in that dreaded thing, the cultural activity, wherein they will be handed over the stage for five to ten minutes each and asked to perform. The brat, in a clear indication of where his genes have diverged from mine, given that I would need to imbibe generously from the fortifying spirit before I can be convinced to go on stage and perform to a song, has signed himself up for a group dance performance with four other pintsizes. This has meant hiring a choreographer, a task undertaken by the other very enthusiastic moms of the other pintsizes, I am merely coasting along on their tidal wave of enthusiasm, scheduling practice sessions and holding earnest complicated discussions re costume. To all of these, my invaluable contribution has been an earnest and constructive, "Whatever you guys decide."
The other day the brat went in for dance practice at 6 pm. This after a long and tiring day of swim practice at 6 am, school at 7.30 am, post school karate at 2.30 pm, tuitions at 4pm. The maternal heart was heavy and all for him skipping the dance practice session, but he laid out his raiment, track pants and tee shirt and poured himself into them, and took off for the club house where said dance session was to be held. Two hours later, with no sign of him laying the body weight onto the doorbell, I wandered down to the club house to check if he had emerged from the dance session. No. They were still trampling the flooring with the delicacy of a herd of elephants afflicted with St Vitus disease. The choreographer, a scrawny looking specimen, whose baggy trousers were staying up by sheer force of willpower given that his waist was the diameter of one of my thighs, was looking most harassed. He shouted his instructions to the kids and they laboured on. The brat, as I have mentioned before, is a smooth, natural dancer. That's the Y chromosome effect. I am a non dancer who loves to dance. Ergo, people who happen to be in the unfortunate situation of being compelled to watch me dance, have been known to put them OTC drops to cure selves of the pink eye the ensuing day. The brat, like his father, moves like a dream. He is a pleasure to watch, even if I might dare say so myself, given much watching of brat father dancing has happened in the good old days when brat pater danced the way dancing should happen.
After a bit the brat emerged. 'Mamma, sir said I dance very smooth." I nodded. "What is dance very smooth?"
"It means," I began explaining, "That your movements are not jerky, and are continuous." He gloated for a moment. "I am a good dancer?"
"Yes, son, you are a good dancer," I replied. "I am the best dancer?" he asked again.
"Not the best dancer yet, for that you have to practice dance every day and take dance classes from a good teacher," I replied.
"Den led it be. I don want to be a best dancer. I'll stay being a good dancer. Classes are boreding."
Yes, I thought, classes would take the fun out of dance. They would be boreding. If he still loved dance as he grew, he would seek it out himself. Till then, I would have to hold my horses and hope he found what interested him, never mind if I thought he was great at something and needed to concentrate on it. Perhaps, this is one of them parenting lessons I needed to learn.

2 comments:

  1. Also I was very disheartened to see not one bit of technology in any classroom except the rural England one where there was a projector in the ceiling. Also the way the desks were arranged in a lot of the photos reflects a typical Victorian style shame to see this reflected across the globe.

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  2. Hi,

    You are on HT today...:-) many congratulations on your first book...wish you loads of success...

    I am new mommy n hence new mommy blogger on the block :-)

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