I should have been a geneticist. I'm serious. I really should have been. Then maybe Haylee's skill set would make more sense to me. But I'm not a geneticist . . . obviously . . . so here I sit, completely baffled by this 4-year old.
I mean, the melodramatics are enough to make me want to rip out what little hair I have left, but it's more than that. I realize you're probably wondering what would drive me to a life of chromosomal study in contrast to my current artistic awesomeness, but this is serious. So I'm just going to say it.
Haylee can dance.
This might not be that big of a deal if Kyle and I weren't her parents. My friend, Nancy, told me that I was going to marry Kyle the second she found out he listened to country music. Suddenly she knew two rednecks and it only made sense that we belonged together. She could see no other logical alternative. And here we are, so look how right she was. Our musical expertise really does extend only as far as the local country radio station. I was pretty sure he was going to divorce me on the spot for making him dance with me at our wedding reception even. He didn't, but it was touch-and-go there for awhile. And that was over walking in a circle for all of three minutes. Anyway, the point of this tangent is that we don't dance. As in ever. Because we can't. We have no rhythm, no skill, and no desire.
Say what you want, but we really are her parents. She looks just like Kyle and me, well, I gave birth to her and a kidney stone at the same time, so there's no way I'm not claiming that victory. Sorry, her skills simply defy genetics. Or maybe they don't. How would I know? As previously established, I'm not the geneticist I should have been.
This all started because of my love for Irving Berlin's 'White Christmas.' Any time my boys would catch me watching it there would be obvious outrage.
"Why can't you put in something good like 'MacGyver' or Jeeps!?"
Because regardless of how much I was in love with MacGyver as a preteen, even his mullet cannot compete with Bing Crosby's crooning, that's why. Of course that's not what I said. I said something stupid like, "Because I'm the mom." Haylee was a different story altogether.
"What is this!?"
"Do they dance the whole time!?"
"No, but they do it a lot."
And then there was an "Oh, yes!" as she plopped down on the couch.
I just stared at her. And that was the beginning of the end. She watched that darn movie almost every day for two months straight. Sometimes more than once. And she would constantly skip back to the dancing scenes, so now I can practically perform right alongside Vera Ellen. Except my legs aren't nearly as skinny and I'm not a blonde. Oh, and I can't lift my leg higher than my knee. But besides that stuff, I'm fully educated. I'm concerned as to whether that DVD is even going to work next holiday season. And if it has any chance at all it's only because I took it away from her at the end of January.
We weren't really sure what to do with this little development. Every day she would go in, change her clothes into any dress she could pull down out of her closet, and twirl around the house for hours. No exaggeration. So we finally enrolled her in ballet.
There's only one dilemma with this whole scenario. We thought channeling her desire would create a little less twirling everywhere we went, but it's only enhanced it. And now she doesn't twirl . . . she dances.
I wish I had a video of our trip to Old Navy last week. I had to grab Kyle some more jeans for work and so I took the girls into the mall (yes, I'm fully aware that I said I would never step foot in that place again . . . I had no choice, okay?). Old Navy plays . . . well, now that I think about it, I have no idea what genre that music is because as previously established I only listen to country . . . but I'm guessing hip-hop (or whatever music it is that has a really catchy beat).
So we're clothes shopping when all of the sudden Haylee starts dancing to the music. At first I was a little bit mortified and started looking around for the security cameras that might possibly be filming this episode. Then I realized my darty eyes were probably making me look like a shoplifter and so I went with the "pretend you don't notice" tactic. That worked for a second . . . until the song changed to one even more upbeat. Haylee can shake her booty like . . . well . . . like whatever singer is good at that sort of thing. Again, country singers don't really dance like that, so I'm lost. Suddenly my embarrassment switched to pride. My daughter's got rhythm. I mean, like really good rhythm. People were starting to stare, but in my current prideful state I was not overcome with the horror that I normally would've been when one of my kids causes a scene.
My 4-year old can dance. And she's good at it. And I don't really know why I'm writing this post, other than to say that being a mom does not help me understand my children at all. Being a geneticist would have . . . or maybe a ballerina.