Glurge

Well kids, it's that time again. The big Spring Ballet recital is this weekend. I expect many interesting and touching stories will emerge.

I wrote this a few years ago after a big email flame war about Glurge. You know what glurge is. "Aftah a hard day at the salt mines, I just look inta that lil darlin's eyes and it's all worth it." There is an (infamous) China Dad who has self published two books about his darlin' daughters filled with this kind of...well...um...glurge. He promotes the books endlessly.

I decided I'd be the Anti-Glurge.

If I ever write a book about adoption, it will be called (and don't you dare steal this, because I am a lawyer and I will hunt you down like a dog) What Am I Doing In China Jamming A Babylax Up A Screaming Kid's Ass?

Madeleine And Ballet

When we rescued our homeless orphan, I indulged in grandiose dreams. I hoped that by age 5 our angel would be able to play the violin, ice skate, speak 5 languages, write Shakespearian quality sonnets, and most of all dance a pointe routine to Swan Lake. Instead we are cursed with a child who does not exhibit even the most rudimentary grasp of the English language (She does not know what NO!! NO!! NO!! means) and has not mastered the art of, um, properly cleaning her nether regions after eliminating.

By God, I gave it all I had. I gave up 2 bottles of booze and a carton of cigarettes a month and enrolled the darling in ballet classes at age 3 1/2. Ignoring the small voice in my head that said "You're wasting your money, idiot", I gladly shelled out for the myriad expenses that come with pursuing one's Art. Lucky that I DO ignore the small voices, as they sometimes urge me to set the house on fire.

As I wrote out those checks month after month, I rejoiced in imagining the triumph that would be mine when the Diva made her stage debut. Well, this spring was the happy event. I rounded up the usual suspect (Grandma) and proudly sat myself in the audience ready to see my dreams fulfilled.

The small ones happily bounced out on the stage. After a cursory glance at the ugly spawn of inferior beings, I settled back secure in the knowledge that my child was easily the most beautiful one out there, regardless of her demonstrated unfamiliarity with the Queen's English. (NO!)

She was not a dying swan--she was a bunny with a bad head cold. After the "dance" begin, my initial impression was that, if I had a bunny that exhibited the symptoms she was displaying on stage, I would immediately seek emergency veternarian care for the unfortunate mammal. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, causing my hemmorhoids to painfully flare up.

After that, I contented myself with imitating the lost child in Home Alone, clutching my throbbing head and softly moaning. I did experience a small flare of delight when she was the last one off the stage, milking every minute of applause she could. Another ham--just like her Mom.

A vague vision came to me as I sat in the darkened auditorium, of another small dorky child thumping around clumsily on the stage dressed in a leotard with leaves pinned to it. Suddenly I realized that vision was of me in 1965 at Mrs. Lewis's Academy of Dance Recital, where I decided at age 6 that I probably would find more success if I pursued another line of work.

I slumped back wearily in my chair and tried to decide which medical specialty I would encourage her to go into--or perhaps engineering. Mechanical, Electrical, or Chemical?

We'd discuss it after the recital.