A Mother’s Tearful Confession: My Ginger Son Can’t Dance

The setting is different, but the events are always the same.

Yesterday it happened at the hair salon. I walked in the door with my five-year-old son, Luke. Before the receptionist had a chance to speak, he shouted, “Free, two, one. Hit it!” Despite my reluctance, I followed what I knew was my cue to hit “play” on my iPad as Luke began to bust a move to Daft Punk’s hit, “Get Lucky.”

Luke was instantly drunk with power. He loved the cheers and applause from everyone in the lobby. I gave him the usual thirty seconds before cutting off the music to proceed with my hair salon business.

“Good job, Luke.” I told him. “Those were some nice moves.” He remained silent, but acknowledged my complement with a super cool wink and a thumbs up.

However, there was a problem- a dirty secret I’ve never shared before. 

(Deep breath)

My name is Lori Wescott and I don’t think my son is a good dancer. 

Man, it feels good to get that off my chest. I’m so tired of the pressure to be fake, the pressure to hide the shame. My son is a caucasian, ginger, five-year-old, overly confident dancer and I have taken the first step to his recovery. Starting August 19, 2013 Luke will be attending an all boys hip-hop dance class. 

I know I have all of your prayers and support that, with proper education, my son can have moves like Jagger. I’m no idiot. I know the odds are against us. He will most likely be hard to teach because he already thinks he’s a great dancer- a trait he acquired from his father. Only time will tell if the instructors can turn his pelvic thrusting hokey-pokey into a decent pop and lock.

The picture above was taken during one of his acting lessons at The Nashville Children’s Theater. That particular activity didn’t even call for dancing, nor was there any music playing. I’ve resigned to accept that he was born to dance. My responsibility as a parent, however, is to ensure that he doesn’t make a fool of himself at parties for years to come. 

I’ve been called a hero and a saint, both of which are true. Now, I’m also a warrior Mom. 

If you feel so inclined after reading this moving confessional, please feel free to donate to my “Let The Gingers Dance” foundation. LTGD is glad to accept donations in the form of cash, money orders, and merlot. You can put them directly in my mailbox. 

Post-Valentine Confession

Now that Valentine’s day is over I can stop pretending that I have a perfect marriage and tell you what happened the week before. Ermahgerd!!

So ok, I got really mad at Brantley Wescott two weeks ago, and I can’t remember the details right now, but trust me that he was being a total douche. I know I have it all written down in text messages to my friends. Hang on while I look it up. Here it is. (Oh, Jesus take the wheel! I’m angry again!!)

He wasn’t being a good communicator and he said, “Shut-up,” to me.

I’m not kidding. I was furious.

Later on, but before he apologized (that detail is crucial), I ran errands that landed me near in proximity to Green Hills Mall, specifically Nordstrom. I can honestly say that I’ve never been revenge shopping before, but I did it that day and it felt good. At least, until check out time when the girl ringing me up (who I realized by engaging in not-so-small talk with, is someone who I was almost related to by marriage, briefly, but still. Small world!!) said, “I need your address so I can send you a thank you note in the mail.” I asked her to forego the formality and just say it to my face, but she insisted and I wasn’t far enough along in my friendship/almost kin-ship with her to tell her that I was shopping on the down-low, not to mention my mail phobia. I mean, if I don’t know who licked it, or recognize the handwriting on the envelope, then it goes straight into the pile for Brantley to open. Because of this, I have an open mail policy with my husband, and there is a good chance of him intercepting said “thank you” note. Rats!!!

I then added that I’m a terrible liar, and that there was very little chance of making it through the day without spilling my own beans, anyway. Brantley always knows I’m lying because I have a tell. It consists of me speaking in a loud-monotone voice while gazing directly into his neck. I swear it’s like he’s in the CIA, or something. He always knows.

Anyway, a few days later this envelope came in the mail and it made me chuckle.

Clearly, it’s NOT from Nordstrom.