Fantastic news from the far corners of the internet: Dance Moms are holding castings! I don't have to tell you, dear reader, that clearly, the world has not known such momentous news since Kimye were christened thus...
Up until this point, I'd always been decidedly stalwart on my reluctance to bear children. After all, I still wash my hair in my kitchen sink and drink Vimto out of a wine glass: clearly I'm not ready. If I'm going to wreck my waistband on anything, it's going to be carbs. But then Dance Moms came along and saw through all that, plucking me out of my white-wine-from-a-box fug and saying, ‘Hey, come join us. You'll like it here: we slam cocktails and drink cheap wine too.' And suddenly I'm considering donning an off the shoulder top and bootcut jeans, courtesy of TK Maxx 10 years ago and grabbing my niece to go along. (At 13 months old, it will be just in the nick of time.)
That's right: suddenly, I desperately yearn to be a Dance Mom. To know that ‘assemblé; cambré; chasse; coupe-decale' isn't just the wine list down the kebab shop, but actual dance moves to be yelled at six year olds who can't wrap their legs around their heads properly (amateurs). If I'm going to be a mother at some point—and that's looking ever more likely, if only to stop my mum from weeping every time we step into a Baby Gap— then I want to be a Dance Mom, because they're the best kind.
Reality telly mums—or to use the local spelling, moms— get a bad rep. This is largely because they include amongst their ranks Dina Lohan (spotted partying with her daughter moments after she emerged from rehab, casually waving her ankle monitor around her head like a giant, clunking lasso) and Kris Kardashian (possibly the only mother on the planet to push her daughters into doing Playboy shoots and releasing sex tapes, to say nothing of her over-adherence to alliteration). But then came Dance Moms and in one smooth pirouette, blew these other mums right outta the water.
Whilst other reality parents are consigned to the background, weird succubi feeding off their children's success, these moms are the show: they're the centre of the action. I mean, yeah, they put the ‘I' in vicarious too, but they're doing it in highly flammable-looking polyester and that's hard to pull off.
These kind and loving women are such good mums that they know it would be foolish to try and do the job singlehandedly and that probably wouldn't leave much time to drink wine. So, they do what any loving parent would and thrust their little darlings into the hands of Abby Lee Miller: someone who cares about these girls as if they're her own—said with the underlying violence of someone who eats their young admittedly, but still.
Why, these women are so committed to their children's dance that they often threaten to stop loving them if they don't do well, insinuated through complicated facial expressions and emotional warfare. Marriages break up over this, but they're so dedicated, they don't let that stop them. Oh no! They just find a rich boyfriend to foot the bills instead. Can Kris Jenner or Dina Lohan say that? Um, well yes and yes, but that just shows we're on the right track.
Some say it's ‘child abuse telly' and that's probably because of the time one girl got scalded by her hair curlers, or the giant red baton that's used as a ‘motivator', or maybe because one mum named her daughter Vivi-anne. But those people are probably just jealous because their daughters aren't ‘top of the pyramid' material.
So I'm flying a flag for Dance Moms everywhere, shaping my cleavage into an odd monoboob, and tiger striping my hair. For these women not only make me want to become a better person, but one day, maybe, a better mum too. And that's something the Kardashians have yet to inspire.