Crap Dance Mum

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On the weekend, we piled into the car and took Jack off to yet another dance eisteddfod. Eisteddfods have been around since the 12th century, with their origins started in Wales where the headline act was poetry. These days, there are many, many eisteddfods of which I think I have been to most. With names like Hollywood Bound National Dance, Follow your Dreams! , Heritage Dance Challenge of the Champions and Shake That Money Maker Baby, You might imagine that these events are a star-studded gathering of celebrities, agents and the beautiful people in general.

Not in some draughty high school hall an hours drive away.

When we arrived I realised quickly that I was a complete crap dance Mum. Horatio and Mr. Woog also pointed this out to me, as I was neither carrying a large and elaborate costume, nor was I toting a huge wheelie bag full of make up and hair accessories. In fact it was just Jazz Hands Jack holding a David Jones bag with a t-shirt in it. And it wasn’t even a posh David Jones bag. It was a David Jones SALE SALE SALE bag.

The judges were on their lunch break, so no one was allowed in the hall. We sat outside in the sun, trying to get warm while I watched the professional dance mums tease, backcomb, spray and scrape hair into amazing creations while they gave everyone the side eye, sussing out the competition. I put my newspaper back into my bag, and wandered over to Jack to see whether I needed to spit on a tissue and rub something off his face.

Eisteddfod is probably the hardest word in the English language to spell, but did you know that it comes from the Welsh meaning “Eistedd” which is to SIT and “fodd” which is BE? True dat. Sit and be. Which is exactly what I did through section seven gatrillion while I waited for the Ten Year Old Contemporary section to start.

Now, I get very, very anxious before a performance. Not because I have a competitive streak in my body, but because I know the human error margin is enormous. I mean, my son does no handed cartwheels named after Indian Rice dishes on the stage and I worry he is going to fly off and land SPLAT on the floor. I worry that the band aids that I use to stick his hearing aids on firmly are going to come undone and he will not be able to hear the music. And I am concerned with the fact that he hates wearing underpants will become his downfall.

They call his section.

“Are your nervous?” I ask him…

“Nope. I gave it all to you. You are my nervous.”

Immediate butterflies fill my stomach. Thanks, kid.

And then he begins. Twirls and splits, spins and arches, reaching here and there, following his dreams.

Turns out you don’t need a fancy, huge bag with your name embroidered on it to win an eisteddfod. You can win it with a crap dance mum.

Are you on the Eisteddfod circuit?

Come say hi and I will buy you a cup of International Roast.