With all the rolling her hazel eyes can muster, Daughter asks Pete why I had to volunteer to help backstage at the 1 p.m. dance recital yesterday. [Fear not, this was asked before the recital.] He tells her that they need help and I am doing a nice thing by helping. Head tilted back, eye-rolling perfected, she exerts a heavy sigh and says, "Well, she'd better not do anything to embarrass me."
As if I would pass up the chance to do precisely that.
I did. Pass up the chance, I mean. In fact, we both did our very best performances backstage in the dressing room, executing the dance of mutual ignoring for all to behold.
What I did do was constantly shush the over-excited dancers, young and old, so the din wouldn't be heard over the music and dancers on stage.
What I did do was fold all of the costumes only used in the first show, marveling at the sweat and stench and smeared make-up and hairspray on many as the girls tossed them in a heap next to me and the bins.
What I did do was stop fathers from entering the dressing room during intermission with a practice-makes-perfect eye roll communicating the ultimate "Duh" to them as I said, "Hello? There are teen girls changing in here." I enjoyed the look of shock of understanding come over nearly all of them. [I did not enjoy the attempted bribe by one. Kidding. No bribe offered.]
What I did do was manage to sneak out to see all of Daughter's dances and realize, yet again, in amazement that, hey, that's my daughter up there!