Not too long ago, one of my daughters read something in a fairly current bestseller about how it was “actually a good thing when your children disappoint you.”  The author was making a larger macro parenting point; one I might have been able to respect and wrap my head around if say, I, were the one reading the book – If you know what I mean.  But there was just something about having one’s own offspring highlight that particular passage and send me a screenshot that struck me as…I don’t even know.  But, it struck me.  

I might add, this occurred before ANY of my children had ANY children of their own.  

As I pondered the myriad of implications resonating throughout this text, I remember thinking, “We’ll just see about that!” 

And now, we ARE seeing about it. Things are starting to get really fun. 

And by fun, I mean to suggest that my grandchildren are making my children “better people” in much the same way that my children made me a “better person.”  If you know what I mean. My grandchildren are rolling up their teeny-tiny little sleeves and finishing the good work that I started.  They are shaping and molding their parents’ character.  

How are they doing this?  By disappointing them, of course. Only mildly…in the smallest of ways.  The casual observer would never even notice. But still…it’s kinda fun to watch from the good seats.  

As most American Mothers do, I enrolled my daughters in dance lessons.  Alas,  several hundred thousand dollars later, only 1/3rd emerged as a professional dancer.  But, boy, could that girl move.  She was twerking in kindergarten before I even knew that was “a thing.”  She pranced her way through high school Pom, college Pom and right onto center court of the NBA.  So, naturally when she made her own little female human, we all wondered if the dancing talent was genetically transferable.

But we are a patient tribe. We waited insouciantly until an age we all deemed appropriate. The ripe old age of 3.   We arrived at that age using a rather complex algorithm: I don’t want to bog you down with how complicated the formula was, but basically it was when her tutu finally fit without slipping down her tiny little hips as she toddled.  Thats when her mother signed her up for ballet.  

And that’s when disappointment reared it’s ugly head.  If you know what I mean.

This little gal, this little genetic wonderment, this absolute replica, doppelgänger of her mother refused to even cross the threshold of the dance studio.  Oh, she certainly Looked the part, she just wouldn’t PLAY the part.  Her golden tresses all done-up in a severe topknot, her miniature leotard and tutu fluffed just so, pink slippers so elfin-sized I wept at the preciousness.  But y’all, she was just not havin it.

Quel dommage!

She didn’t seem to mind the ensemble – the plumage of it all – even though oreos (overalls) are her daily outfit of choice.  She just had no interest in joining the other similarly clad little girls in this ancient female right-of-passage we call dance class.  She expressed semi-peaceful resistance by letting her body go limp as a noodle on the floor.  Give her a bull horn and this gal could organize a protest movement about absolutely anything, anywhere.

But, what bewildered her young adoring mother the most was the fact that under most circumstances, bribery works wonders with this kid.  And, trust me, her mommy bribed her with everything imaginable.  She even called in “back-up” to come beseech (aka Daddy, for whom said child typically submits her utmost cooperativeness)…to no avail.  

After a couple of weeks a pattern emerged. This small Woman-Child donned her tutu every Tuesday afternoon at 3pm, rode with her mother to the dance studio, claimed she was, “too scared to go inside!” and then sat out in the hallway and chatted animatedly with all the Dance Moms about various Grown-Up Lady Topics, such as career challenges, parenting struggles and marital dynamics.  At one point my daughter confessed, “I’m not sure, but I swear I think she rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, ‘She needs to leave him!’”

After each “Tutu Tuesday Report” Grandma and all the Aunties agreed she was definitely not, “too scared” to go into that stinking dance class.  There was something else going on.  Perhaps she was toying with her mother?  Just a little mild disappointment, nothing too earth shattering.  If you know what I mean. 

Mama Dancer asked, “Should I un-enroll her?  I’m wasting time and money!”  I countered with, “Not really, after all you’re gaining valuable insight into her personal viewpoints on career, marriage and family!”  

“Continue acting nonchalant about the dance aspect of Tuesday afternoons,” her experienced older sister advised.

And then, lo and behold, the magic happened.  Either curiosity got the best of her or the Real Housewives of Dance were having an off week, but she casually meandered into the actual class.   

The videos came rolling in as fast as I could tap on the viewing arrow. My joy was palpable. I’m reminded of a story one of my friends told me once about her grandfather attending her dance recital.  He was getting pretty old and probably going deaf.  But as she danced, she could hear him bellowing from the audience at the top of his lungs, 

“Well, Hell, Baby’s the best one up there!”

My girlfriend remembers being somewhat mortified, because to this day she swears she was a horrid dancer, but the story speaks to that absolutely insatiable pride and adoration of a grandparent.  

As each successive video came through…I was giddy over the genetic transfer of talent. Baby did not disappoint.  What an amazing dancer – I love how she flops around like a rag doll at the end…her signature move, reminiscent of her former days as a Community Protester.  She will probably be a dance enthusiast.  In one video, you can even hear her saying, “Mommy, I’m doing it!” as she executes a twirl. 

But, I have to admit I’ll miss those few weeks of watching her build her mother’s character.

If you know what I mean.