Just That Kind Of Girl. Just That Kind Of Mama. - Cheaper Than Therapy Cheaper Than Therapy

As a self-proclaimed gold medalist in the Olympic sport of World’s Worst Dancing, it makes me cackle with immense joy that my girls have any sense of rhythm at all.

See also: World’s Worst Singing.

And it’s weird, really, that not only do they have some rhythm in those tiny little suburban jewess bodies—they are actually good. Nay, great. They spend hours in our studio, which is actually just a room that will one day be a proper office but because we still live as though we live in a frat house, we actually are in possession of a giant room that has exactly not one piece of actual furniture in it. So, right now it serves as my daughters’ personal studio in which to choreograph and move to their delight.

Mom of the Year? I guess this makes up for little slip-up when I let the kids listen to parts of the Book of Mormon soundtrack. Oooops.

Oh like you never.

I have these proud mama bear moments where I am actually overcome with emotion. I’m a crier, I won’t deny it. I have mentioned this once, or about a hundred times. At least enough times for my kids to tell me that the only thing more mortifying than the actual crying is, well, all of the time I spend talking about ALL OF THE CRYING.

Way back when Kristen Bell was doing the talk show circuit to talk about the sloth that turned her into a weepy mess, and a youtube sensation, I got it. When she said, “If I’m not between a 3 and a 7 on the emotional scale, I’m crying…” and while everyone else was all Oh Poor Kristen Bell is a Legit Crazy Person I just sat back and thought that it’s possible that Kristen Bell might be my soul sister because you guys—THIS.

I cry all the damn time. I cry at happy things. I cry at sad things. I cry when I feel emotional. I cry when I’m tired. I cry when I’m angry. I cry when I have PMS. I cry when I find the perfect dress. I cry at goddamn Folgers coffee commercials. (Bonus tears for holiday ones.) I cry when I watch my children accomplish a feat—hockey, skating, acting, singing, dancing. I cry when other people’s children accomplish feats. Yes, you guys. Other people’s children. As in, children who are not my own. I fear that growing a baby inside of my person has just changed me forever. Or maybe it’s just being an older lady.

So, yes, when I’m not between a 3 and a 7 on the emotional scale, I am crying. Although if we are being honest, for me it might be if I’m not between a 4 and a 6.

Yesterday probably put me somewhere deep, deep within this range.

Luckily for my sniveling, snotty face, we were late ordering our tickets for our daughters’ end-of-the-year 12-14 Hip Hop and 7-9 Hip Hop Vibe Dance Recital and we were stuck somewhere back in the M-section, where I was free to weep my way through 35 different performances. Emily actually got to dance her number twice, due to a girl showing up at the wrong time and her class rallying to want their friend to get to dance on that stage.

My equipment couldn’t get me lovely close-ups of my little ladies, but I was able to sit back and soak it all in. The self-pride, the determination, the complete and total sense of pure joy—I could see it all in their faces and their moves. My girls are so lucky to dance weekly at a studio that is run by two special, special role models—Marnie and Rena Schwartz—who have taught my girls so more than just dance steps.

I hope my girls never stop feeling this way.

But I’m pretty sure they won’t.

(photo lifted from Shane Black, who managed to be on time with his ticket-ordering and scored himself some front-row seats. With permission, of course. At least I think so.)