I didn’t want my daughter to start Irish dancing. I was adamant (since her birth) that there was no way she was going to do it. I did it as a child until my late teenage years and this was one thing I didn’t want to pass on. I didn’t want my daughter to suffer with the pains in her knees that still keep me awake, or to have to walk up the hill to school in agony because of the torturous shin splints but swagger as normal because the boy I fancied was coming up the hill behind me. I didn’t want to subject her to the demonic dancing teacher with the cigarette hanging from her mouth, the heavy velvet embroidered dress in a lurid colour that mum made me wear on the tube to the Feis in WhiteChapel and the so-called ‘feis friends’ who would destroy her confidence side stage. I just wasn’t going to allow her to do it.
But she is doing it and I’m still bewildered at how this has happened.
Him indoors brought her to a class (it was next door to her school and most of her friends were going) unbeknownst to me. When I found out, I cried. I cried because she loved it and I cried even more when her teacher (minus a cigarette) said she was ‘quite good at it.’ There’s no going back now. I’m the one (not him indoors) ferrying her to several classes each week, I’m the one dealing with crazy obsessive parents (I hope I’m not one), I’m the one trying to keep my very young daughter humble when it goes her way and boost her up again when it doesn’t and on Friday I will be the one taking her to the Great Britain’s for the first time but that will be the next post.