Typically, I’m not superstitious. I can walk under ladders, pet a black cat on Halloween, and not panic when I break a mirror — unless it shatters while I’m gazing into it. That’s a whole different anxiety. However, from my repeated history, a looming black bird the size of a small Cockerdoodle is foreshadowing for sure.
With that dark stare, a sense of impending doom crept into my subconscious. Would there be an accident? Or, heaven forbid, was someone going to die? I tried to remember if there was a full moon because that would have cinched the deal. It would be one quick U-turn and I’d be back in bed. Alas, no sleep for me because we were on our way to my daughter’s dance class.
One of the perks for young girls on a competitive dance team is they get to see each other often and dance their little tutus off. Not literally. That would be an inappropriate team for any child. However, what’s often a perk for the child is a torture-fest for the parent.
Currently, my daughter is taking only four classes a week. Yes, she desperately wanted to do this. I know there are some of you moms reading and shaking your head saying, “Four? That’s child’s play. My kid’s on 27 teams. Plus, I homeschool her, so she can learn all the positions, choreography and be fluent in French just to pronounce the dance steps!”
As any seasoned chauffer knows, whether she’s a mini-vanning soccer mom, a tennis taxi or a member of the softball SUVs, the rules are finite. If your child’s event is an hour or less, a parent will pull out their cell for some phone crack, whether it be Candy Crush, Netflix or perhaps to write a column.
That morning, my daughter attended a mandatory ballet class. We had to rush afterward because she had plans to go to Science City with her grandparents. Not wanting to lose precious quiet time, I dropped off my dancer, parked near the door and plugged in my phone to charge.
I was excited to have the day to myself, to clean up our family’s holiday mess, find places for new toys and catch up on laundry. After several levels of Candy Crush, and comprising my to-do list for home, my hour had expired and my dancer was rushing to our dance delivery demi-van.
Turning the key in the ignition, I was jolted by what can only be described as a car panic attack. It was my mistake for leaving the battery running for an hour. Darn, that Candy Crush!
Cough, cough, splutter, splat!
“What was that, Mama?” my daughter asked.
“Oh, I must have not pushed down on the gas enough. We’re fine,” I lied to her.
Bap, bap, bada blatta psst…
“I thought you said we were fine,” pointed out my literal child.
“We are. The car … not looking so good.”
Thankfully, after several failed attempts, another dance mom and I were able to jump the battery, only to prove there’s nothing dance moms can’t handle. And my daughter was only a bit late for her next event. Luckily, I didn’t have to chauffeur her downtown.
At the end of the day, I was relieved that nothing else went wrong. No disasters. No death. The only thing the raven killed was my van and, briefly, my pride.
Score one for the bird, but 100 for the dance moms, for we stared death in the face and came out victorious.
Previously published in The Kansas City Star on January 8, 2016