Who’d have thought I’d end up here?  Fondly watching on while a sea of bunned heads twirl and leap around in a crowded, humid room.  Sequins litter the floor, feathered neckpieces adorn the little boys climbing over each other in the hallway.  Headstands, high kicks, the odd carpet burn.  This is what life is like as a dance mum. 

Actually, its hair grips.

Yes, I said hair grips.

Everywhere. 

All over my house: 

In the bathroom; down the toilet; under beds; clogging up my hoover. 

  Just everywhere.  They go missing, I have to buy more, they go missing…

It’s an unending pain in the rump steak.

Oh, and pants.

‘Tuck your pants in!’ you cry before they head into class/exam/stage.  Heaven forbid anyone spots the pink frill attempting to escape into view, to finally have its moment in the spotlight… 

It was made for this, it was always different from the other pants, they were plain and drab.  This pair, however, they were never meant to be tucked into a leotard!  It’s nothing short of a crime not to unleash them onto the world!

So beige ‘dance pants’ for us then.  One’s that put high-legged underwear to shame by sitting so high they’re practically bra straps.  They’re weird.

There, I said it:  Being a dance mum is weird.

Are you a dance mum? Got any advice on how to tame the hair grips? Why not share them with me in the comments?