Needy Need Not Apply

I recall being independent at a very young age.  I was an only child for ten years, then "the oldest".  My parents simply expected I would do a vast array of chores.  I never wondered if other girls did.  I was expected to handle everything from dusting the bannister to mowing the lawn.  I weeded gardens, painted sheds, cooked dinner, cleaned house and watched The Baby Brother.  I recall hot summer days spent pushing the lawn mower and cold winter mornings shoveling snow.  I just did it.  I did not get an allowance.  I got love.  Seemed enough.
Here's the rub.  My parents raised me to be able to Do It All.  Clean house, do manly chores, take care of babies, work at a job, get good/great grades, and be a social butterfly.
Would seem I am a catch, eh?  Well.  Perhaps not.  I am almost 52 and decidedly single.  I have had a vast array of failed relationships in my life, and I think they all fall in to two distinct groups:
1.  The guy who couldn't stand it because I could do it all alone
2.  The guy who didn't do much or nada because I could do it all alone

#1.  Pissed me off
#2.  Wore me out

Hasta LaVista, baby.
I am now almost one year Manless.  Partnerless.  Alone.... but not lonely.  I have been approached by some men, but I have something to say:
Needy Need Not Apply.
I don't want to hear about your past failed relationships, and I assume you do not wish to hear about mine.
I don't want to hear about how LONELY you are.  Buy a pet or get a past time.  Pleeeease.  You are a Grown-Ass-Man.
I don't want to be called "Sweetie" or "Honey".  I'm not our "Sweetie" or "Honey".  I am a Grown-Ass-Woman.
I don't want you to SAY "You shouldn't have to do so much".  I want you to show me you will do it for me by... DOING IT FOR ME.
That's the bottom line, I guess.  A lifetime of independence leaves me in a place where something truly romantic and HOT would be the guy who mows my lawn while I'm at the studio.  The one who makes me dinner after work.  That guy.
Let's be clear.  Don't need the guy.  Many days, don't want the guy.  But, I'd LOVE to have my lawn mowed.  Today. No, really, the lawn... out back... on the hill.  No undertones or suggestive word play here, folks.
I have always loved my quiet time.  Reading, writing, day dreaming, gardening.  I want to get up and head out to an estate sale if I wish.  I want to sleep til 9 am if I want to.  I am content with what I have.  I have a wonderful daughter, an adoring dog, and extended friends and family.  I'm cool with all that.  So, if you are aware of all the above and Never Need To Be Needy, then there may be a puzzle piece missing here.  If not... I can get by without that small, missing piece. 
Too old for games and too young at heart for boredom.  No NEED for the Needy.  Seems about right.

Celebrations and Salutations

Graduation season always hits my heart and knocks my senses sideways.  I took it hard when it was my own rite of passage, I have struggled and embraced all that it has held for my friends, my relatives, my students... and now, for my only daughter.

I screen shot large portions of life in my head. Snap memories into the puzzle of my life like I am a jigsaw Queen; relive rolling video in my brain as I fall to sleep at night; wake early and look at the day ahead with trepidation mixed with elation.

I thought I would be a bigger mess.  I thought I would walk around in a river of tears every day.  I expected sobs at dance recital and gulps of air like some washed ashore fish as I witnessed "lasts"... last concert, last this, last that.

Tears.  I have them.  Somewhat silent, slippery little devils, who roll down my waiting cheeks and cause me to wipe with backside of hands as secretly as possible.  Sniffles.  Blame that on allergies.
But... full on tsunami cry?  Not yet.

This is a celebration, folks.  This amazing human whom I created has become SOMEONE.  I have always known she is special... as every mother knows every child is... but in this time, in this moment, she is SOMEONE.  Someone who has achieved so many goals throughout her first twelve years of school... academically, musically, socially, physically, emotionally.  Someone who has made plans for an amazing future and has taken solid steps to see those plans through.  Someone whom I am immensely, and justifiably, proud of.

It is a month of salutations.  Congratulations.  Farewells.  SeeYaLaters.  Hugs that linger longer.  Foot steps that pause as backward glances are made before plunging forward.  Yesterdays growing foggy as today beams and tomorrow beckons.  Shake hands with confidence, smile broader, laugh when you can.  This is the way this life goes.  It just goes.  On and on; somehow... everyday closer to the salutation--- Good bye.

Forgive my sentimentality.  I am just another mom watching another child walk across the stage which represents life.  I am just another empty nester choosing bedding for college dorm room and counting pennies to pay tuition.  I am just another mom laying in bed at night, silent tears rolling down cheeks, salty rivers onto pillowcase. 

Yes, I am celebrating.  Mostly.  But, sometimes, the celebration pauses and reality hits.  Forgive me for praying... Forget Me Not.

Standing up or Backing down?

It is something I have struggled with all my life.  Daily.
Standing up... or backing down?
If I stand up for my beliefs, if I state an honest opinion, inevitably, I meet with someone else's beliefs.
If they choose to state them, I am faced with conflict.
I despise conflict.
I have been known to cross three states to avoid it.
No, really.
Within the need to avoid conflict, lies another of my qualities with duel attributes.
I can always see some aspects of truth in someone else's beliefs.
Wrapped in that self attribute is the fact that others see my ability to accept degrees of their position as me Backing Down.
This, quite often, leads to me running away.  From the person; the discussion; the argument.
I am certain there is a complete thesis available on my disorder in the halls of literary and academic homes.
This would not help me.
Why?  Because I would be able to see and understand all sides of the arguments held therein.
Go ahead, have a giggle at my expense.  Really, it's okay.  I understand the comedy of errors here.
All of my life, I have avoided argument and conflict and, more often than not, have chosen to not state my opinion and have held it all in until... Boom.  I explode.
Today, I am filled with opinions.... and emotions.  Rage and anger and pent up disbelief at how the small and extremely large injustices go unanswered, unaddressed, unstopped and undone.
We have come to live in a world where the gray is so massive that the black and white-- the right and wrong-- cannot be seen.
Everyone has a right... to their opinion, to their lifestyle, to do as they wish.
And MY OPINION STATED HERE is that I agree... unless their opinion is so hurtful it causes another person pain.  Unless their lifestyle involves impinging on the rights of others.  Until their lifestyle means that others may not enjoy life.
And, therein lies the rub.  The conflict that I avoid.  That I despise.
Let me say this.  I have always been aware of my personality trait.  I did not become an attorney (once high on my list of possible careers), because I knew that this distinct part of ME would not allow me to do that job to the best of my ability and to serve others best.
I fear that those now in authority may also suffer from my trait.... but have chosen to plow in to politics and positions where being decisive and sometimes NOT accepting of others is a necessity.
I believe they need opinions.  Strong ones.  They need to stick to those opinions.  Listen to others, yes.  Bend to them? No.
So... I've gone and done it.  Stated my opinion at the risk of hearing yours.  Here is another thing I know about myself, though... once I put it in writing, my opinion is strong and unyielding.  I know beyond doubt this is how I feel.  It is my opinion that some people need to have an opinion.
There.  That's done.

Parening is NOT an obligation

When, oh when, did Parenting become an Obligation to some? 

When did we become a society where child support was needed, demanded, withheld?  When did walking away from your marriage mean you could walk away from the child?  When did this become our reality?

Stark.  Harsh.  True.  I find myself living in a place where the non-custodial parent equates time with money and believes that a minimum donation makes them a Parent.

They withhold financial assistance, they do not parent, they show up when it is convenient for them.  They tell the world they are a parent.  They show their child that they are not really part of their world.  They live in contradictory allegiance with their own dark places and lack of soul.  And, they somehow convince themselves, that they are right.

I see men and women who live on a shoe string to take care of children from past relationships.  I see them finding ways to be inserted positively into their child's life.  I do.  But these are the rare ones.  They are the dot in the sea, the needle in the haystack.  This makes me insatiably sad.

Sad for the custodial parent who takes on that extra burden to parent for two.  Sad for the child, who never understands how they did not choose to play a role in this staged version of parenting , and yet it is their reality.  I even, on some degree, am sad for the non-custodial parent who never knows the joy of a deep relationship with someone who they brought in to this world.  For the person who gazes, from afar, with jaded eyes, on the relationship that the custodial parent builds bit by bit, minute by minute, touch by touch with their child.

Parenting is the most special thing I have ever been able to do.  It is not an obligation.  It is an honor, a joy, a life process that I am happy to allow consume me.  I have this Amazing Kid.  It is pretty cool.  It is My Best Thing Accomplished In Life... this Mama Biz.  Glad I am not missing one moment of it. 

Really? Just... Really?

I have had a few days of "Really?  Just... Really-ness" in my world.

Let's start with the ever fun-filled world of (drum roll, please) DANCE COMPETITION.  For those of you who live under a rock, I am a dance studio owner and director.  A few times each year, I subject myself and my students to weekends of (drum roll) DANCE COMPETITION.

They used to be fun.  Or, I used to be fun.  Not sure which.  Now, don't be mistaken, there are moments of fun.  Moments of heart warming beauty that reduce me to tears.  (I am usually also sleep deprived and dehydrated when this happens).  There are friendships made and dance pieces appreciated.  But, lately, gosh... these other studios can be Really... Just Really... Mean.

Is it Dance Mom Disease, stemming from the world of Abby Lee Miller and television?  Perhaps. Is it a lack of common courtesy in today's society?  Quite likely... but REALLY.  People are MEAN.
Dancers who mock each other from the wings.  Teachers who tell their students not to worry about the act before them... "You have her beat.  Ewww.  She sucks".  Adults who sit in the audience and make faces at CHILDREN as they perform.  Directors who shove other directors out of their way.  False airs of superiority and the belief that three minutes onstage and a trophy define you.
Ugh.  Just... Ugh.

It is silly things beyond the dance scene.  When snowbanks tower over cars and take up half a lane on city streets and someone is parked and you have to WAIT your turn to get through and people DON'T and I am, like, REALLY?  JUST... REALLY?  Today, someone passed me in such a situation as I was waiting to let a q-tip head driver (Read and translate: Old.  REALLY... Just... Old) come through from the opposite direction.  Excuse me, butt face man in large pick up truck blaring bad '80s Rock and Roll from your vehicle... are you in THAT much of a hurry?  Really?  I think not.  Poor q-tip lady could have had a heart attack.  I almost did.

How about the guy at the gym who erased my name so that he could take my tanning spot?  Really?  Are you that desperate to get some Vitamin D?  Who does that?  Am I just beyond silly for saying that doing such a thing would never even cross my mind?  Really??????? 

I am at that point where my disappointment in the people around me brings me to tears and causes me to rise to action.  Did I say something to those nasty people at dance competition?  You know it.  Did I roll down my window and ask q-tip driver if she was okay?  Of course.  Did I wait for Gym Jerk and tell him what he did was wrong.  No doubt.

Maybe, perhaps... Just.... perhaps... these things are tests to see if anyone will respond or stand up for what is right.  I am not saying I am anyone special.  I AM saying we can all be someone special.  It doesn't take much effort or time.  Join me.  It's kinda fun.  Really.  Just... Really.

A Step In The Right Direction

Dance has been my life.  My first memory is looking through the side of my playpen while my Mother taught tap lessons in our living room.  She kept a piece of old paneling behind our couch, pulled it out to the middle of our living room, cued up the 78 rpm records on the player, and taught time steps and off to buffalos.

I grew up taking every style of dance you can imagine.  My mother’s little living room dance class grew into one of the largest and most successful dance studios in Northern New York.  We traveled to cities and other states for workshops and conventions and competitions.

When I went off to college, I planned for my dancing to cease.  But, no.  I was President of the college dance company and found myself running off to the dance studio every chance I got.  I graduated in 1985 with an English Literature degree and a vow to NOT be a dancer.

After a few years in the “real world”, my mom called to say that the Army base, Fort Drum, was expanding back home.  Would I be interested in coming back and opening a studio?

Yes.  I would… for “ a little while”.

I got married, started a family.  My studio bloomed.  My mother’s studio continued to grow.  Looking back, I guess we were just dancing through life.

In early 2000, my mother began complaining of severe migraines.  She had suffered with headaches all her life, but these were different.  In February 2001, while she was babysitting my daughter, I got a call at my studio.  The ambulance was en route to her house.  She had carefully placed my 3 year old daughter on her bed, closed the door, and went to the opposite side of the house where she had a full blown seizure.

Within days, our world crumbled.  My beautiful, young mother had gioblastoma multi-form.  A rare and incurable brain tumor.

She battled for eight months.  In that time, I tried running her studios, my studios, taking care of my daughter, and I went through a divorce.  I was always tired, always sad, and feeling lost.

When my mother passed away in December of 2001, I didn’t know what to do or how to move forward.

Our dance studios were nationally competitive.  Trophies lined the walls and shelves.  Plaques were everywhere.  It was all hollow and empty and meaningless without her.  

In 2005, I decided to rework the studio concept.  My dance outreach company was born.  Our motto… Dance for others, Dance for self, Dance for life rings out on stage before every benefit show.  The dancers involved have raised over $40,000.00 for local people and groups in need.  To watch young dancers blossom before me, to see their faces when they raise $3,000.00 for a family with two blind sons or help a cancer patient warms my heart.

My dancers have become amazing teachers, performers, parents and have continued to take our spirit of giving and outreach with them and into the larger community of our world.  

My clogging company always dances in honor of my mother, who loved country clogging.  Their shirts say, “Dancing for Donna since 2001”... and I shed a tear every year at our final performance when I see them out on stage.

Starting an outreach company was more than a step in the right direction, it saved my soul.  It lightens my load.  It gives my art and my profession a purpose beyond any words.

In my mind, I can see my mom dancing along with us.  Her smile lights the entire stage.

The Back Story

When I was young, my parents used to constantly say I  brought home strays.
They didn't mean dogs or cats ... they meant people.
I was constantly befriending the girl who had no friends, the boy who got bullied.  I preferred to go visit our 80 year old neighbor after school, because I knew he was lonely after his wife died.
This may, in many ways, seem to be a glorious and wonderful trait.
Somedays, in many ways, it is indeed.
However, my ability to see The Back Story has often meant that the very same people whose story I embrace, turn around and hurt me or leave me stranded.
What is this back story?  I am a sucker for someone who cries poor or has less than me.  I want to help them, to fix them, to make it all better.
First off, it should be noted... many, many, many of them do not want me to fix anything.  It isn't, after all, my place.  Who says I am in someway "better" than them... who says my back story is a shining example of wondie-ness.
Note.  I don't.
I never have.  We were squarely  middle class when I was growing up.  Often, we faltered on the lower middle class end of the spectrum.  I never knew it then.  My parents never, ever shared this with me.  But, in retrospect, lunch boxes with a "mustard sandwich" or saltines and butter may have been a big hint.
My Mom watched for sales and clipped coupons.  Having $100.00 saved up to go to the Ames in Lowville and get new school clothes was a big deal.  Still, I always felt so lucky.  So rich.
I loved our home.  My mom, even though she ran her own business, always had an after school snack waiting and dinner planned.  I had two parents who adored me and listened to my stories.  I had a baby brother who I hung the moon on... he was (and still is) the Best Sibling Ever.  I had dogs and a yard with a big swing set.  I got to take piano lessons and dance lessons.  They hauled me to cheerleading practice and one of them was at every game I ever cheered at.
When I saw a child who didn't get to participate; who sat alone at lunch; who wore the same clothes every day; who never got asked to sleepovers or birthday parties, I was like a magnet attracted to a sheet of metal.  I was "on that project".
As an adult, this has continued.  I always see someone who seems sad or angry and the writer in me begins to create their Back Story.
Were they an abused child?  Are they facing unemployment?  Illness?  Is a family member dying?  I will surround them with love, shower them with Free Stuff, take them to lunch.... I will make up for their Back Story.
Will I?  No.  I won't.  I will attempt it.  Inevitably, I will fall short or they will take advantage of me.  Either way, it sure does sting.
In many ways, on most days, I am still that third grader who invites that shy kid home for dinner.  I am too bright and happy.  I try too hard to fix what is not my story to fix.... what someone may  not wish for me to fix.
I still beckon you to look at those around you who seem nasty or sad and wonder- What Is Their Back Story.  I know this- this faulty trait of mine makes me much less judgmental than most.  Even my daughter, at a young age, would caution me to stop letting people walk all over me or take advantage of me.  She is a better judge of character than her soft hearted Mama.
Nonetheless, if I ever meet you, you can bet I am wondering.... What Is Their Back Story.
Maybe you want to tell me, and maybe you don't.