Dance Recital Claims Thirteen Lives

OK, it didn’t really kill thirteen people, it killed me thirteen times. If you don’t have any children, then you’re not even really alive. You can’t claim to be living or getting the full experience that life has to offer until you have snot nosed punks running around. No, I don’t care what you say, you’re not alive until you’re part of the “baby club”, until you go full term.

 

Sure, you may have gone bungee jumping in the Amazon forest or toured the country in the luggage compartment of the Grateful Dead bus. Perhaps you’ve backpacked across Europe and made love in the rain next to a vineyard. I don’t know about you’re awesome, Mel Gibson-Lethal Weapon cool life, except that it pails in comparison to child rearing.

 

You might think that “hand fishing” in Peru was painful or that time you got shot over the nickel bag you were trying to score for your “cousin” was bad. Trust me; you don’t know pain until you’ve sat through a four hour dance recital. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I don’t love my children. I’m just saying that I’m going to hold this against them for the rest of their lives.

 

“Dad, can I borrow the car tonight?” “Do you remember that four hour dance recital I sat through for you?” It will become my answer to everything they want from now on.

 

As I think about it, I guess I didn’t mind the three minutes that I watched of MY children dancing. That was pretty cool. I guess it was the three hours and fifty-seven minutes of others people’s kids that drove me crazy, (that and my numb ass, nothing like limping out of the auditorium). You might be asking yourself, “What’s not to like about watching three and four year old children pretending to dance as they watch the teacher, who’s standing on stage with them?” To which I would reply, “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you, I was loading my gun.”

 

Too harsh?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster