Much like snow days, dance competitions have a certain flow to them. Since, it’s a dance competition weekend for us so I thought I’d share, and commiserate, with all of you how it usually goes.
The Week Before
Find out when you’ll actually be dancing. Up until this point, you’ve had the whole three days blocked off, but you might only dance on two. And the hours could be anything. 8am? sure. 10pm? Absolutely. Now you know when to be there. Consider this madness you’ve allowed yourself to be steeped in.
Book a hotel. (If you’re like me, you’ve not bothered with a hotel until now. Most dance moms are probably better at this. I’m not. I just picked a hotel for Friday.) Almost booked it for next weekend. Thankfully, notice at the last minute and course correct. Phew.
Check the dance bag. This monstrosity has its own pop up rack to hang too many costumes and too much makeup. There’s a section for snacks, eaten within the first 2 hours on day one, and another for hair products. Be 100% SURE that nothing is missing. There are 472 separate items to check.
Begin the panic portion of the led up week. (This might not apply to everyone, but both my dancer and I have anxiety disorder, so this is critical.) Start with worrying about exactly what time we should start getting ready. If the first dance is at 8, we need to be there at 6, so we should shoot for 530. It takes an hour to get there, so we should leave at like 4 in case of traffic, which means we should start hair and makeup at 230. And this is how we end up at the venue 4 hours before our first dance.
The First Day
Decide that everything we did to get ready was insufficient. Panic check the bag again. Notice that one eyeliner is looking at us a little weird. Think about replacing it.
Start getting ready an hour earlier than planned. Have at least one pet join and cause chaos.
Look at some costume made with netting and see that it is wrinkled. Decide to put it in the bathroom and run the shower on hot to steam it. Discover you’ve locked it into the bathroom, requiring the complete removal of the doorknob to retrieve it. Make a note to never steam costumes this way again. Steam costumes this way constantly.
Use enough Got 2 Be Glued hairspray (the dancer’s favorite, Amazon says I’ve bought this 8 times!) to reopen the hole in the ozone. Cause the pets to retreat from the bathroom because they value their lung capacity. Begin having a coughing fit. Worry that the dancer’s eyeliner is going to run if her eyes water. Hold tissues under her eyes.
Pack the van. Load the venue into maps and start the dance competition playlist. It’s critical that the entire car knows these songs. Sing like you’re on American Idol until the last 10 minutes of the drive. As everyone knows, the radio must be turned down so you can see better to know where to turn. I don’t make the rules.
Finally arrive, realizing the first dance is in 42 hours.
Find the studio’s dressing space and prepare for battle. You have a bag the size of a compact car that needs space in a room with 75 other bags that is made to fit 25 kids and desks. This isn’t for the feint hearted. Harken back to the Tetris you played as a child and fit that bitch in somewhere. Stand back and marvel at your skill.
Have your dancer request the bag be moved adjacent to their dance buddies. Silently cry.
Realize you forgot to pack something. Head to the nearest Ulta. (It is usually some type of makeup or bobby pins in the appropriate hair color)
Watch your child dance 1 time in 6 hours. Stay until 10pm for the awards. Even the children will seem unenthused by this time.
Back up the bag and check into the hotel at 11pm.
Start the panic planning for tomorrow’s schedule.
Repeat x2 for the next 2 days but with more dances and shorter American Idol auditions. You’ll probably need those trips to Ulta again, though.
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