Somewhere, there is some sort of rule that if you dwell in suburbia, you MUST put your little girls in ballet class. Being that we don’t really buck trends in our socio-demographic cohort, we foisted our (then) not-quite-3-year old upon an unsuspecting ballet instructor at the earliest possible opportunity. Our kid is usually fairly well behaved, but has inherited her mother’s drama whore genes, and her father’s need to be constantly in motion. These are not necessarily good traits in an art where discipline is key. But I digress….

(*Insert hand waving dream sequence +fade out +sound effects  from Wayne’s World here*)

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It was Julia’s first ballet class, ever.

We get to the studio.

Kids in pepto-pink frothy tutus galore. My kid is wearing black.

All of the other kids are named Madison/Maddy/Madycen.

They’re led to a circle, and are given some simple stretching exercises, such as “making banana toes.”  Cue my kid to get up and crawl on the instructor’s lap. Julia is politely asked to go back to trying the footwork they’re learning. She starts LICKING the face of the instructor. Astute Mommy Olympian that I am, I pull her aside and tell her she needs to stop touching the teacher, and needs to listen and practice her ballet. She goes back to circle, and is an active participant for several minutes before jumping up and streaking around the room. She does a few laps. I catch her and bring her to the group. She takes off to “twirl” at the other end of the room. I bring her back. The kids make a circle and go to hold hands. Julia viciously grabs the hands of poor Mhadesin (who only wants to drape herself on her mother) and the instructor, and instead of doing the Ring Around The Rosy thing they’re supposed to do, she starts trying to run into the center of the circle, dragging Mhadesin with her. The instructor, who is used to this (2.5 – 3.5 year olds aren’t known for their focus and dedication) keeps including Julia, who then bolts, and starts running around again. Maddisonn gets up to join her, and the two of them are running and twirling by themselves at the end. The other Mommy Olympians are disgusted with me, and are smug because their Angels would never be Bastards like my kid. I’m dying of shame, and want to fall through the floor.

I will not be standing in the Mommy Winner’s Circle tonight.

But wait! It gets better! Suddenly, Julia runs full tilt at the circle of little girls, and screams “GROUND AND POUND!!!!” as she SLIDE TACKLES two of them into the concrete floor.

OH MY LARD.

I run over to pull her out – I’ve had enough of this and wish to tan her ass. The other little girls are bawling, and everyone is just agape at my horrible little brat’s behavior. Julia sees me, shrieks, and tries to run in the opposite direction….and trips. She goes sailing into the floor, mouth first, and when she stands up, screaming, there is blood gushing from her mouth. Fountains of burgundy blood.

FUCK.

I grab her, and take a quick look – she may have knocked out a tooth or bit through her lip.

SHIT.

Now what?

Everyone is standing around.

Julia is screaming. Someone offers to watch my sleeping baby in her buggy while I get first aid for Julia. She’s rubbing her face into my light grey-white cashmere sweater, and it looks like a pig was slaughtered on my boobs. I grab Julia’s dirty socks and press them against the bleeding mouth, and run downstairs, where I’m met by their First Aid attendants. They take a look and determine the teeth are fine, but there is a huge hole in her lower lip. One of the other Mommy Olympians ran out to the car and got her sleeping husband, an ER doctor, to come and look at Julia. They cleaned her up, and after about 15 minutes of compression, it was determined that she didn’t need stitches – it was just going to be ugly for a few days. Her pink leotard looks like something from a horror movie. I look the same.

Here’s the kicker: by the time we get the whole fiasco dealt with, the lesson is over.

I am mortified.

If I had beaten her ass, I would have been crucified.

If I didn’t give her shit, I’d be scorned.

If I’d pulled her out, I’d have been That Mean Mommy, Stifling Precious Child’s Creative Urges.

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LESSON LEARNED 1: Don’t let your pre-schooler watch UFC with your husband.

LESSON LEARNED 2: Kids under 4 shouldn’t be in organized sports.

LESSON LEARNED 3: Corporal punishment needs to have a resurgence in popularity.

LESSON LEARNED 4: People in the ‘burbs love the name Madison/Maddison/Madysin/Maddyson/Mydysyn.

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