5 words I never thought I'd say

This might be the shortest post ever, because I am a bit frazzled about the upcoming Scotland trip.  Lots to do.  In my dreams, I manage to pack AND clean my house before I head to the airport . . . and somehow it remains immaculate while I am away.  I know, I know.  I said, 'dream' didn't I?  I'm not holding my breath.

Preparing for a trip like this after spending the better part of the weekend carting my dancers to St. Pat's shows feels like I am competing on one of those obstacle course ninja shows.  'Let's see how long it takes her to make dinner, cut some Irish soda bread to share with the other moms, attach a wig, play the part of the Sherpa as she drags gear to the car, check to see if the airbnb people in Scotland responded to her email, and . . . watch out contestant with Irish roots, traffic looks challenging tonight.  Will she get to the dance performance on time?'

The weekend kicked off Friday with an early morning appearance on the local CBS news program.  We had to be at the studio at 4:45 am.  I set my alarm for 3:40 am.  Wigs and makeup and elaborate dresses and sparkly socks before sunup.  Brutal.  Fun, but brutal.

Yes, St. Patrick's Day was this weekend.  Translation:  aching backs and sore limbs abound for the parents who sit or stand for hours side-stage craning necks to see the kids perform . . . sore feet and exhausted bodies for the constant-motion dancers.  At least the parents can ease their troubles with some green beer - not an option for the young performers.

A true badge of Irish dancing honor:  owning multiple, outdated Irish dancing wigs. Here on display are two bun wigs and two full wigs.  The brown full wig consists of incredibly tight curls.  That was so the 'in' wig about 8 years ago.  What to do with discarded wigs from forever ago?  Well, I store them in my little dedicated Irish dancing cabinet.  I have worn one for Halloween in recent years.  Perhaps someday I will mount them on the wall near the mini stage in our basement.  I could really get nutty and frame the old, unable-to-sell, what-a-great-investment-these-were dresses that still hang in my closet.

While wig attaching skills are put to the test, the phone battery is overworked to take rare video footage of dancers in action.  If you aren't an Irish dance-mom, then you probably don't realize that audience members aren't allowed to video Irish dancers during competition.  Shows - have at it.  Competitions though, highly forbidden.  There is a fear that one dance school might steal another school's steps.  Just a standard case of how a few nut jobs can ruin it for the rest of us. 

Normally I would welcome the chance to sit and socialize with other parents during the hours-long shows.  Knowing how much I had to get done at home put a slight damper on the 1:00-9:00 pm dancing stint yesterday.  Majority of that was spent in an outdoor tent - somewhat heated, but still . . . this is Chicago in mid-March.

Mini's wig hanging on the back of
a stool in our (still unfinished) kitchen. 
It's not an uncommon sight. 
Unfortunately.

Curly wearing a wig is sac-religious to me.  She doesn't always wear one.  Just for big competitions, like the upcoming World Championships in Scotland.  The wig people should be modeling their wigs after my kid's head of perfectly tight and bouncy ringlets.  The wigs styles are updated from time to time - just like the pricey dresses.  How else would the vendors make a buck?  At the moment, Curly's wig (the latest style, of course) is much less curly than her actual hair.  Mind blowing.

A few words I NEVER thought I'd say to one of my children:  'Did you remember your wig?'  Really, there isn't enough green beer to get over that bit of verbal vomit.  Despite the many occasions where I see dancers wearing wigs, this old school dance mom has yet to wrap my brain around it.  I'd  prefer that the dancers just sport their own, natural locks.  Curly or not.  I'd also prefer to return from my overseas adventure to a clean house - just more evidence that I am disillusioned and can't accept the reality I am living with.