January 5, 2011

  • Fitting In

    Last night was dance class – the first since the holiday break.  I… really did NOT want to go.  It has been bad-to-worse, our dance class experiences since leaving our original studio.  But we had to leave, because we’d moved a 2-hour round trip away from our previous class at the same time that the owner sold out to new people (who took a fun-loving, great dance school and tried to turn it into a combination Stepford/Julliard school of Dance). 

    We’d gone to several different places, but they weren’t what I was looking for.  I wanted a teacher who made it fun and enjoyed being with the kids, while teaching them something at the same time.  We landed at a really rough studio where the teacher was fun, but utterly distracted, unorganized, and (okay) tasteless.  As a result the kids had fun, but it was a nightmare and nobody really learned a whole lot.

    So I’d found a new place for this year – which (ironically) also employs disorganized chick. (<< She has her own studio as well as teaches at this one.)) But because my kids would have different teachers and this was more ‘education-oriented’, I was hoping for good things.  Instead, it has been WORSE than the last place.  I have yet to see Ethan/Isaac’s teacher teach – she drinks water, plays with her CD player and notes, and the kids use the class as free-time (a VERY expensive free-time).  At our original studio, the 3-year old class learned six in-studio songs/dances, and one recital piece (twice a year).  Here, my 7-year old is learning three recital pieces… it’s been five months, and they still haven’t learned the whole dances for any of them, and they’re considering cutting one, because it’s “too much”.  I could scream.

    Meanwhile, I babysit.  The studio utilizes an elementary school for the classes, and parents drop their two kids off, and one sits by herself for an hour while the other does class, then the other comes out and sits for an hour while the younger one does class.  No parental supervision – just about anybody could come in and take these kids, and nobody’d know.  They’re just left to themselves, wandering the halls.  And it’s several families that do this, so the kids have latched on to me as ‘parent’.  I bring cards, dominos, balls, etc., and play with them.  You wouldn’t believe how attention starved these kids are.  Brian comes halfway through the second hour to meet us, and they *HUG* him when he shows up.  A total stranger/man.  It’s crazy.  And of the mothers that *are* there, one is plugged into the internet and doesn’t look up the whole time, and the other mothers socialize with each other (aka have no idea that their kids are down another hallway doing heaven-knows-what… nor do they care).  I have up to eight kids at a time back with me.  It’s… craziness.  And frankly, I don’t like it.  I have my OWN kids… I’m not entertainment for the other mothers.

    Brian laughs and says I should ‘go be social’ like the other mothers… but I just can’t stomach it.  I’ve never been good at small talk or praising some un-exceptional deed.  I’m terrible at being sympathetic, because I see half the sorry stories as being ridiculous and totally preventable.  I know that’s harsh, but that’s just… how I am.  I have little patience for stupidity or the mundane.  It’s a waste of my time.  And yeah, that makes me a bitch in the eyes of a lot of people.  I’m sorry.  The reason Johnny is acting up so much is BECAUSE HE’S BEING NEGLECTED BY YOU AND IS BEGGING *ME* FOR ATTENTION, so shut the HELL up and take care of your kid instead of drugging him with friggin’ Ritalin, for Pete’s sake.  ((<<< I have people issues.  I know that.  It’s why I stay away.))

    I was reading a Nicholas Sparks book (the ONLY one out of eight that I’ve tried worth reading)… it was called “The Lucky One”, and it’s about a soldier in Afghanistan who finds a snapshot of a woman during one of his morning runs.  No one claims it, so he starts carrying it around, and it brings him uncanny luck (winning poker games, saving his life more than six times, etc.).  So when he returns stateside, he sets off on a walk across America (Colorado to North Carolina) to find the woman in the photograph… and of course they fall in love, but that’s not the point.

    The thing that got me was… when I was reading this book, it was talking about how soldiers who see action/battle overseas have a hard time assimilating back into society when they return to the states, and one of the key underlying reasons is because they have seen death/terror/war/pain/suffering/etc.  They have lived out horror, and to come home and have to listen to people bitch about their cellphone plan or get wrapped up in who Jennifer Anniston is dating… it’s trivial.  It’s ridiculous.  They can’t think on that level anymore, it seems trite and ridiculous, and people are so ignorant and completely wrapped up in themselves… it’s difficult for them to relate.  They feel as if they’re different.  Changed.  And everything around them… they *need* to connect, but can’t, because it’s too shallow.

    And I swear, THAT is what I can relate to.  It was eye-opening to read… because I identified with it SO well.  That’s why I can’t talk to those other mothers.  That’s why – if we were to meet in real life – I probably wouldn’t get along with you.  The conversation would be stilted, at best.  I just… have no interest in small talk.  I’m the one standing off, wishing there were someone who swam a little deeper in the intelligence pool to connect with – who knew what was going on with the EU at present, who was aware that there’s a massive flood in Australia, who could discuss the failings of the modern-day church or discuss the economy and the effects of propping up the dollar, and what small things we should consider doing to hedge ourselves.

    I can’t sit down there with mothers who aren’t concerned about their children and chat about how so-n-so just got the complete collection of “Sex in the City”, and, oh, don’t you just LOVE Sarah-Jessica’s new haircolor?   I… can’t think like that.  I’m sorry.

    Apparently, I’m just not gonna fit in.  And I’m not really regretting it.  But I am glad to know that I’m not alone in that.  Seems there’s a few veterans who feel the exact same way.  ((grins))