Children and Dancing II

Years later, I started to work with my daughters, then aged 14, 8, and 6 on a belly dance routine for Pagan Pride Day (http://www.mainepaganprideday.org), which was to be the debut performance of our dance troupe, Luna Wind (www.lunawind.org). I had a piece already choreographed and the girls knew many traditional steps just from mimicking me around the house.

The first day that I was set to do some serious teaching with them, I had the dance choreography written out and the steps highlighted that were new. Due to Deirdre’s age, I had kept the dance simple.

We pushed the living furniture to the sides and got down to business.

“I want to go outside,” Deirdre said after about three seconds of work.

“Let’s get the opening down first.” I said cheerfully.

“I want to go out now.” Deirdre crossed her arms over her chest and stared at me. Deirdre has a way about her that can frighten people. She had just grown out of her feral child stage. I’m not joking. Deirdre was sent home from preschool five times in the first two weeks for fighting. She bit, swore, pulled her hair, hissed, snarled, and refused to wear clothing.

At any given moment, she could be found crawling around the apartment in her underwear cursing anyone who dared to approach her. I called her Smeagle in my mind because she was bone skinny with very little hair and eyes that glowed iridescent. And she obsessed about shiny things. She had matured a lot since starting school, but I was always nervous that she would revert like she did after my divorce when she was four.

I smiled at Deirdre and looked to Camille and Claudia to help me. Claudia wouldn’t catch my eye. I think she wanted to be done with practice too. I’m not sure if she even wanted to perform with us. High school has a way of turning the nicest child into the Kraken. Camille shot a loving glance back at me. Good ole Camille could always be depended upon to be dedicated to me.

“From the top.”

“I want to go out.”

“After we get this part down.” I looked at Claudia, “Then you can all do what you want for the rest of the afternoon.” I was anxious too because Sam, then five months, was napping.

“I want to stay with you until we get it right.” Camille batted her dark lashes at me.

I smiled at her encouragingly even though my stomach was in a knot. Sappy sweetness crawls under my skin in much the same way that obstinacy does, which makes Camille and Deirdre quite the deadly combination. Ignoring Deirdre’s whimpering, I made my way to the computer and tapped the play arrow on I-Tunes. Elaine Silver’s “Calling All Directions” (http://www.elainesilver.com) swirled through the air.

I wrapped my veil around me and motioned for the others to line up behind me. We began our intro-walk to our places and started our first spin. Once turned around, I realized Deirdre was not with me. She stood off to the side, her veil covering her head, arms crossed.

“Deirdre,” I snapped. My head felt hot and my body ached.

“What?” Her slender arms snaked out from the pink silk.

“If we get just the beginning finished, we’ll be that much closer to the end.”

“I don’t want.”

“You don’t want to what?” I lowered my veil so that it draped behind me, rippling like the ocean.

“I already know what to do.” Deirdre turned around, her orange hair shimmering gold under the fabric.

“Then show me.” I spun around and collapsed into the computer chair. I hit the keys harder than I meant to and the music started over. I rolled around and gestured for Deirdre to begin. And she did, dancing every step perfect right up to where we had left off.

The phone rang and Claudia grabbed it, retreating quickly to her bedroom just as Sam began to scream. Camille walked over and leaned into me. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Can I go out?” Deirdre let her sunflower colored veil drop to the ground.

The Really Real World

Sam and Theo are sleeping. That's an odd occurrence and I'm making the most of it by trying to get my fourth blog up for the week. That's my goal. Claudia will be home shortly and will have to do her homework in front of me. I know, I sound mean, but yesterday, I received three failing notices from her school. Claudia is normally a straight A student, but this year has been hard on her and on me. She seems relieved that she has to do her homework at the kitchen table. She must be tired of this year too.

I say year even though I am aware that it is only five months into 2008. Since I've been a student and/or teacher for such a long time with as many kids as I have, I count years in terms of school years. So, this one is almost over. And it's been hard for Claudia and me.

I remember being 16! In fact, I dreamed about it last night. I've been doing that a lot lately. And, I don't see my teenage years in grays like I do my twenties.They always seem bright when I think back on them, like the settings were all blue screens. Just a little too real to be real. Sometimes I feel like I fell asleep back then and am only waking up now. Things have been very different for me since I met Drew.

I am all over the place lately in my head. In fact, I think I've always been that way. But, I'm really trying to focus now. I've decided that I must deconstruct myself. Like when redecorating, you take everything out of the room and put back only what you truly want or need. That's what I'm trying to do with my head and life. But, I'm confused sometimes trying to figure out what I want. I thought I'd make a list of what makes me happy, but I keep getting distracted when I think about it.

My problem is that it is a terrific challenge for me to slow down and focus on one thing for any given length of time. I'm always imagining about thirty-five different directions something may go in. And I get awfully excited about some of those directions and have trouble slowing down to focus on what I'm doing to make sure it is complete and well done.

For example, say I was to put this on a blog and suppose someone like an agent saw it and contacted me. That would be pretty cool wouldn't it? But in reality, it has taken me almost a week to write this much and it could be even longer before I'm finished. Now, I'm stuck writing like mad to some unknown agent that I would probably hate if I ever met him or her.

And I'm planning her gender, style of clothing, hair color and tone of voice. And I'm stressing because I have to type and revise this before I can put it up on my platform and Ms. Angie Agent will be looking for me and I'm not there and she'll take her long legs, wise ass attitude, and nasally voice to some other writer and offer to represent them.

Now, I'm making a mental list of all of my missed opportunities that I didn't know I had until five seconds ago. Whew. And poor Theo is starting to stir and that's affecting Sam who is twitching in his sleep and the dishes are piled in the sink, the cranky dryer has stopped, and the phone is ringing. Now, I'll never get that agent!

The Chin Mudra

I'm trying to learn mudras to incorporate a more sacred feel to my dancing. My daughters Deirdre Camille and and I have been working on a piece to Gypsy Caravan's "Awakening". In it, we are telling the story of when Paravati shed her dark skin and became Gauri and her black skin became Kali.

Throughout the first half of the dance, I need to stay in one place to hide Camille and Deirdre. Since I can't move my feet, I figured it would be an ideal time to use sacred hand movements to summarize our story.

There's no one in Maine who can teach me, so I did what any bibliopile/shopaholic would do and purchased a book, Mudras, Yoga in Your Hands by Gertrud Hirschi.

I managed to read the first few chapters while nursing Theo on our cramped patio space. I say cramped because our back outdoors-like area boasts an array of planting items, a mop and it's bucket, bikes, Rollerblades, scooters, a water table, Aiderondak (yes, I spelt it wrong on purpose because it's fake and I don't want to commit copyright infringement) firniture (that I spelt wrong because I' typing with one hand while holding a sleeping infant), and a huge table that Drew had to buy with the intention of fixing about one thousand years ago.

Sam was occupied near me with the empty water table. Yes, I'm a terrible mother for not wanting to fill that thing up four hundred and sixty two times a day so that he can add mud and paint to create art. He seemed content driving his cars up and down the sides, so I didn't want to cause any friction between us that morning.

I got to the first mudra, the most important mudra, the best known. The one on the cover of the book. The one referred to as "The Chin Mudra". The one that Drew calls the A-Okay.

I played with the movement on only one hand because my other arm was fiercely wedged between Theo's head and my lap. I gestured wildly for a long time trying to dredge up a positive memory to focus on.

Sam got tired of playing in his empty water table and went inside. He popped out again and put his cars in the mop bucket and headed back in. I realized that waving my hand around frantically wasn't the proper way to work mudras so I slowed down to a standstill and pondered Theo's birth which may have ended happily, but the ordeal of adding him to my rather large family was painful and messy.

I shifted my thoughts to my handfasting last June, but got bogged down in the stressful details. I paused, shook my fingers, called out Sam's name and was answered with a "Get out of my room," a phrase Sam picked up from his older sisters.

I brought up images of Drew and pushed my fingers back together. I considered the almond shape of my husband's eyes, the way his glasses rest on his thin nose, and his lips that I long to trace the inside of with my tongue. I began to think about the night we met and how it seemed like we had been apart for such a long time that it felt like our bodies were sobbing when they came together.

Suddenly, my mind was alive with memories of our short time together, the conception o our two sons, their births, picking apples with everyone, a visit to Pumpkinland with the girls.

Like my text instructed, I shifted my focus to my fingers to test if I felt anything, and you know what? I did feel a tingling, like an energy was traveling through my right hand. Just as I was certain that an epiphany was upon me, I heard a sloshing sound coming from the kitchen.

Struggling to stand up I dropped my book and knocked over my glass of water. I did manage to keep Theo latched on so by all means, my aerobics were successful and I could count my exercise as done for the day.

I stumbled into the kitchen, cooing to Theo and found Sam standing on a chair at the sink with a full bucket and a running tap. Water dripped over the edge onto the counter, floor, and all over Sam.

"Look at this." Sam smiled.

I looked down at Theo who finally rolled his face away from my nipple. Leaning over Sam, I turned off the faucet.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I moved past him and headed up the stairs slowly. I climbed over boxes of Drew's art and the random toy and picked my way through old baby items that I wasn't ready to part with, and stepped over two laundry baskets to reach my bedroom door only to be thwarted by the child safety knob.

It took three tries that consisted of pressing my hips against the door to kind of hold Theo while I jimmied the handle with a sort of free hand to get in. I tiptoed across my room again accosted by an odd array of stuff that we keep meaning sort, organize, and put away.

Reaching the crib was no easy feat and slipping Theo over the rail was something that Homer should have written about. But, I did it and after rubbing his belly, he fell back to sleep and I retreated the way I'd come listening for the deafening sound of a splash that would mean my kitchen was done for. It never came.

Sam was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs with his coloring books and crayons. The bucket of water was forgotten. I sighed feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. I think it was because I kept jamming my fingers together to form the Chin Mudra.

Children and Dancing

I can’t say that I have any idea how easy it is to teach children belly dancing in the Middle East where it seems to be a natural part of growing up, but I have some tricks for here in America.

A long time ago, I taught ballet, tap, and jazz to 4-6 year olds at a little studio in Saco, Maine in exchange for a tuition reduction for my own classes. What appeared to be a fantastic opportunity to hone my teaching skills at the most basic level developed into one hour of babysitting a group of mini Napoleons weekly.

The first day of class, I arrived early with my music selections chosen, lesson plan worked out, and properly attired in a leotard, tights, skirt, and leg warmers. My hair was pulled up in a tight knot and I was excited at the fact that I was about to be called “Miss Sybil” for the very first time.

I spent half an hour warming up and going over my simple schedule that included stretching, barre work, a short combination, and then onto tap

My students began to arrive while I organized the albums by the record player (yes, I am that old). I knew many of them from my tutoring position at the local elementary school. Three girls that I was specifically familiar with rushed me with hugs. One girl, Genevieve wrapped herself around me and refused to let go.

Amidst the flutter of tutus, ponytails, and chatter, it became rapidly evident that I was not in control of the class. The girls were doing their own thing, one was hanging from the barre and crying, another was humping the floor in an attempt to perfect the “caterpillar” and another was running in circles, an apparent aftermath of a sugary breakfast cereal.

I almost quit that first try. But, I needed the trade off because my mother was getting very tired of paying for all of my classes and costumes. Dance isn’t cheap.

I kept returning and struggling to get those girls to stand in line, wear appropriate clothing (tutus are every little ballet student’s dream, but are unsuitable for practice).

Around the holiday season, I had put together a lesson plan that included sitting in a circle and singing traditional songs. After barre work and some tondues and plies in the middle of the room, we sat down. I put on Frosty the Snowman and started to sing. At first, I could barely hear myself over the talking, but then small voices drifted and mingled with my own. Then Genevieve stood up and pirouetted. A couple of girls followed her example and then more. Finally, I stood up and danced too.

We made it through every song on that album. And when were done, I realized the entire class knew all the steps I had been trying to teach them. When class was over, everyone applauded and their voices rose together, “Thank you, Miss Sybil.” Genevieve hugged me on her way out and I paused to hold her a little bit tighter that day.

Introducing Sam

Sam is crazy. He is running around this small apartment touching everything with his baby hands. We cut his hair about a month ago and his head and face now look like a big guy's. That's what we call him too, "Big Guy."

He's been up and down the stairs about forty times and he's off again with Camille's lunch box. He's quiet upstairs which means that he's getting into something. All of us in this family know what lack of noise from a toddler means. Actually, it never changes. Whether it's the seven, ten, or sixteen year-old, I know if they're silent, they're up to something. The only door Sam can open upstairs leads to his bedroom. The rest have those huge white balls on the knobs.

He's back again. He is smiling at me, his fingers busy, his eyebrows twitching. He pulls a place mat from under our mail basket and everything flies from the small sorting table.

"Sam!" I don't mean to yell. I know it'll eventually land him in therapy where he can commiserate with his other siblings. But, I'm tired, cranky, verging on killer PMS while I wait for my first period to return since his brother's birth. I usually get them back anywhere from 4-10 months postpartum and the word I'm looking for to describe my mood prior to the first one is unprintable.

"Oh Oh"

"Yes, oh oh is right. Pick it up." I look down at Theo, Sam's five month old brother. He has managed to turn his body in a full circle and appears to be staring at the ceiling. I lean closer, he's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam begins sorting through the mail. I'm watching the computer screen as the new machine chokes on uploading Office Mac, a program I desparately need to keep up with school work. In fact, I have one week left of my semester and if I don't get this program running, I won't be able to read my grading book and turn in my students' final grades.

Theo rolls onto his belly and is crying. Part of me wants to flip him back over but I'm conflicted because I'm curious to see if he can do it himself again. He has before, but he yells a lot before he does so. My mother always insists I hold my babies too much. She says it's normal for them to cry. I know that deep down inside and I'm sure there's a therapist out there who will blame my mother for why I have to cradle an infant as soon as he cries.

Sam has gone out back and returns with one sneaker.

"Thank you." He hands it to me and runs off.

"You're welcome," I murmur. I hear clashing and scoop up Theo.

In the kitchen, I find Sam sitting int he midst of all our Rubbermaid containers. The cupboard is open and he appears to be sorting in the way that most two year-olds do. He's throwing lids and bottoms out of his reach, stretching for them, and then screaming in frustration.

I open the dryer door and lean in to check the clothing. There is something wrong with our dryer, but I'm not sure what. It doesn't stop drying. My mother had suggested we have too much stuff piled on top. She hinted by leaving a magazine open to an article on the topic the last time she babysat, when Drew was scheduled to have a vasectomy. Four daughters between us wasn't enough. We wanted a child together, so we had Sam.

When I met Drew, I told him I had a vision that we'd have a boy together. And I did. I did have a vision.

Pizza Pizza

I have a pizza cooling on the stove. In fact, I think it's going to be as cold as this past winter by the time I get to it. Why am I blogging when I should be feeding my kids who according to themselves are starving to death? Is it because I'm such a dedicated writer that nothing can tear me away from the computer? Is it because I am certain there are mothers everywhere who are dying to hear more Bolly Mama advice? Or is it because I'm trapped in a chair nursing Theo while Sam runs around banging on a pot with a wooden spoon sans diaper, Deirdre is outside playing, Camille is trying to convince me that she broke her arm at school, and Claudia is enroute to in her word: "The Concert of the Year!" As if no one has ever performed live before Panic at the Disco!

Now, Sam has slipped on the sheets still decorating the floor from yesterday's Beltane Pageant and is skidding by me bare bottom in the air with a look of delirium on his face. Well, he is drooling and his already large eyes are a bit wider.

Deirdre has walked in and started screaming at Sam to not touch her food. Deirdre has the special ability of speaking in a high pitched nasal drawl that I can hear no matter where I am. I swear it. I'm convinced if I concentrated real hard during the day, I'd hear her voice travel from her classroom to my living room.

I can't hear Camille anymore. She's wandered into the kitchen to attempt to cut up the pizza into even triangles. Everything must be even for Camille. She was the middle child between her sisters for seven years and still holds on in the middle now that the boys are here. Kind of like how Deirdre still insists she's the baby because there are no girls after her. Camille likes everything to be fair.

"It's done!" Camille has a quiet voice, one that's hard to hear if I don't strive. She will sit beside me and talk for hours and sometimes I never know what was said. Most times that is. She's a writer too. She can put together a 70-80 page story no problem and read it to me. Every word. And ask questions. She always asks questions. I always try to make up exotic answers so I sound more like I'm joking and less like I didn't listen. When she was littler and learning to talk, she'd hold my face and make me repeat everything back so that I couldn't pretend I missed anything. Anything. Did I repeat myself?

Sam's Nap

I'm not much of a blogger. Actually, I've never done this before, but here I am ready to spread my wisdom (or more than likely my faults) regarding mothering a huge brood. Yeah, huge. I have five children, my oldest is 16, my youngest is 5 months and then there's the ones in the middle.

Right now, I'm struggling to put Sam (age 2) to sleep for a nap. I've never been good at the nap thing. Ever. I mean, I kind of have this strategy of waiting until they fall down somewhere and then scooping them up for the bedroom. If they look particularly comfy, i.e. they're going to freak out if I touch them, I will sometimes spread a blanket over them.

My baby, Theo is in his crib. He fell asleep while I was trying to figure out how to set up this blasted blog. I'm really trying to get this platform thing down, but I'm not sure I understand it all.

Just the other day, I was reading an article in Poets & Writers that insisted that all writers must have a platform.

"Hey Drew," I said to my husband. I am aware that it is rude to start any conversation with "Hey", but I do it anyway and my kids do to. When you're outnumbered in the house, you choose your battles wisely.

My husband didn't even turn to me. He's not the "Hey" type. It's rude.

"Drew, what's a platform?"

"Something you put something on." He's not even looking at me. Even though I can't see him, I can tell. I'm talented like that. I can't see him because I haven't looked up from the magazine and I've got a baby hanging off of my breast that keeps popping off and on. And he's asleep. He's just refusing to let go. He's afraid he might starve to death if he doesn't eat twenty-four/seven. And the doctor says he's in the 95% percentile. Tell that to the baby.

"No, I mean, when a person has a platform."

"Like a politician?" I can hear his fingers clicking on the keyboard. He's looking at houses. He likes to view houses online. Sometimes, he likes to go look at them too.

"I guess, but this article says a writer needs to have a platform."

"Oh. I suppose that's like promoting yourself." Oh. I'm discouraged now. I keep reading the article, but it doesn't make any more sense to me.

Later that week, my Mom Writer's Literary Magazine arrived. Last night when I settled down to nurse Theo, I finally got to browse through it. I've been having a bad week in all areas of my life. Make that a bad month. I want to write and write and do nothing else, but it won't fit into my schedule. Drew wants to do art, but that's not working for him either. We decided we needed a bigger apartment and went hunting, wasting much the week on that adventure, only to learn that we couldn't afford anything more than what we have. I feel so frustrated regarding time, we decided that we needed to create a schedule and make sure every last detail of our life has a time slot. So far, it hasn't happened.

Once Theo was really eating and no longer goofing around the breast, I started reading the interview with Nancy Cleary. She has great tips for those of us who want to be published more regularly. She says all writers should have a platform! That word again. But, I love Nancy Cleary. Why? Because I want her to offer me a sweet publishing deal? Yeah, that would be nice, but mostly because she explains what this evasive platform is.

When Drew returned from putting Sam (age 2) to bed, I explained the entire platform thing to him. We cracked open a bottle of wine so we could sip and talk. I miss the days of staying up all night and really discussing things. In our limited time frame, we decided that we each have two years to get our art going and selling. In two years, Claudia (age 16) will be moving out and we'll be down to four. We hope to have a random adventure then. We'll throw out my CV and go wherever it lands.

Now, I'm sitting here figuring this blog thing out with Sam on my lap drawing a picture and slowly fracturing my wrist because he insists on lying over my arm and drawing next to the keyboard. I'm whispering ever so softly (okay kind of loud like a Bollywood singer), "Go to Sleep Sam, Go To Sleep. Lullaby, Hushaby, Go to Sleep Little Sam".

Finally, I look down and he's asleep. So of course, I hear a small whimper drifting downstairs. The source of the noise seems to be baby Theo. No two children under the age of three shall occupy the same sleep time as each other. Bolly Mama Rule #1

So, here I am blogging. Getting my name out.