Chapter 5: Dance Mom Dust Up
Hush now baby, baby, don’t you cry.
Mama’s gonna make all your nightmares come true.
Mama’s gonna put all her fears into you.
Mama’s gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won’t let you fly, but she might let you sing.
Mama’s gonna keep baby cozy and warm.
Ooh baby, ooh baby, ooh baby,
Of course mama’s gonna help build the wall.
-Pink Floyd
“I’ll be right here when dance class is over, sweetie. Then we’ll go shopping, we’ll have lunch, then we’ll go to the park and feed the ducks. We’ll have a mommy-daughter day.”
“Okay,” my little one answers before disappearing into the dance studio to join the other seven-year-olds dressed in their little leotards and dance slippers.
I love being off work Saturday mornings. Being a hospital nurse means working many weekends and holidays. I’ve also worked more night shifts than I can count. You learn to plan your time carefully. My husband’s schedule is worse with long hours and call duty. Sometimes, we pass each other like ships in the night. That was not a problem for us early in our marriage. But a child changes everything. Timing our careers around daycare, nannies, school, activities and necessities of life is one very complicated juggling act.
I know the Paiges of the world would like to think I’m a terrible mother for choosing to continue my career after giving birth. To be honest, there have been moments when I questioned that decision myself. I still don’t regret it. My daughter is well adjusted and doing wonderfully in school. I’ve learned it is what you do with your time and how you build a quality relationship with your children that matters more than just simply being home. My husband is on call this weekend. Clarissa and I will be spending all day together.
Usually, after I drop her off at dance school, I have an hour to run errands before I pick her up after class. Today, I have a different plan. I have my critical care recertification exam coming up. I’m using the hour to read some study material in the waiting room. The room is quiet. Only one other mother is also waiting.
I’m dressed in blue jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, typical for me on a cool Saturday morning. Due to work and family demands, I haven’t had a fight since the cage match with Ginger. Billy offered me the opening bout for his next card against another new girl, the card in which Kelli fights for the number one contender spot. I had to decline since I’m on the night shift on that date. I have my catpin attached to my T-shirt. I’ve only worn it in public twice but received no bites. Today, I have no time for a fight either, so the pin is hidden underneath my hoodie. I take the American Heart Association Advanced Cardiovascular Life Support manual out of my handbag and immerse myself in an array of emergency protocols.
“Hi, I’m Luanne,” said the other mom in the waiting room. I look up, reluctantly. I’d rather keep reading uninterrupted but the woman is just being friendly. No reason not to be polite.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kiva.”
“That’s an interesting name,” she answers. I smile in return. If the situation were different, I might have explained why I received that name but today, I don’t have time. Luanne looks a bit taller than me at around 5’9” with long legs. Her hair is long and blonde. Similar to me, her hair is in a ponytail and she’s dressed in jeans but with a sweater and boots.
“I presume you have a daughter in this class?” she asks, apparently ignorant of my need for quiet reading.
“Yes,” I answer, “Her name is Clarissa.”
“My little girl is Madison,” she replies. “Madison has been dancing since she was two years old. This is her third year of formal dance school. I’m not supposed to say anything but Bethany the instructor is planning to have Madison in the lead position at the recital.”
Oh please don’t let this be one of THOSE parents, I’m thinking.
“Very nice,” I say. “You must be very proud of her,” I add as I ponder the significance of leading a performance of little girls in tutus and ducky costumes.
“Oh yes,” she continues. “My Maddie is a natural leader. She’s the captain of her soccer team and she made the traveling cheerleading competitive team.
No such luck. She IS one of those kind of parents.
“Oh, I see,” I answer, turning my nose back to the book on my lap as Luanne turns her attention to her tablet. After a few minutes, my concentration is shattered again.
“Did you ever have one of those frustrating moments when technology isn’t working at the worse possible time?” she asks. “I spent an hour filling out all the online forms to register Madison for the gifted program. Wouldn’t you know when I click submit, an error window pops up. Guess I’ll have to go to the school myself and talk to the admins.”
Oh lady, please shut up.
“I think she’s going to be like my oldest son,” the braggart goes on, “he’s a senior in high school, he’s ranked second in his class and he’s captain of the tennis team. He’ll be going to Baylor on a full scholarship.”
“Oh,” I mutter, my responses becoming shorter and lower in volume.
“And my middle school son won the President’s Award for Educational Excellence. He won first place at the science fair for his work in superconductors. He’s ranked second in the state in chess for his age group. When he grows up, he wants to do research on the use of nanotechnology to treat cancer.”
I notice Luann’s eyes light up as she boorishly drones on.
“But Maddie will be the literary one in the family. She just wrote an essay criticizing the historical inaccuracy of Disney films. I mean, it’s appalling that kids watch movies like Pocahontas and believe it’s nonfiction.
Of course, I’m thinking. We can’t sully little Maddie’s brain by having her watch fantasy.
“Sounds like you have...um...interesting kids,” I offer. Luann catches none of my cynicism. The truth is I know much more about Madison than Luanne will ever realize. Maddie is a chronic bed wetter. I know this because I occasionally volunteer as a substitute school nurse when my schedule allows. Maddie has had a few accidents in class and is seeing a child psychologist. Let me be clear. I’m not ready to blame the parents without knowing all the details, but I do know that psychological stress is a common major factor in such cases. Given the high expectations her parents demand of her, I’m seeing red flags.
“Yes,” she says. “My husband and I have set standards. After all, he graduated at the top of his law school class. In college, he was Vice President of his college’s chapter of Phi Beta Kappa. Do you know what that is? That’s the most prestigious honor society in the world. It was started in 1776 at Harvard University...”
“I know all about Phi Beta Kappa,” I interrupted....”I’m a member.”
“Really,” Luann exclaims, looking at me for the first time with even the vaguest hint of interest.
“Yes,” I reply, “I was elected my senior year.”
“Oh,” she responds. “Well, that’s impressive. Very few students ever get chosen.”
“To be honest,” I explain, “I was shocked. PhiBK was never anything I thought about. It wasn’t one of my goals. My advisor put in my name and I got chosen. I really didn’t expect it.”
“Well,” the blonde mom asks, “I see you have some kind of medical book. Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Are you a research scientist?”
“No.”
She looks at me with an expression of anticipation, waiting for me to reveal my occupation, clearly enthused with the discovery that she is in the company of an elite individual.
“I’m a nurse.”
For a few seconds there’s an awkward silence. Her face is a mixture of confusion and quickly deflating enthusiasm for her waiting room mate. Finally, she spoke.
“Oh...well,...that’s interesting. I didn’t know Phi Beta Kappa took nursing majors.”
Here we go again with the “just a nurse” mentality. Translation: “If you’re so smart, why did you choose a career in something as menial as nursing?”
“I guess you’re right,” I answer. “PhiBK prefers liberal arts and science over professional degrees. But like I said, PhiBK was never my goal.”
“But, didn’t you want to do...more?”
How ignorant. I don’t owe this woman any explanation but I’ll try anyway.
“No, nursing is enough for me. In addition to my patient care, I’m a manager, I’m on faculty at the university where I teach nursing classes. I’ve written text book chapters and I’ve been involved in clinical research. It’s been a fulfilling career for me. Nursing gives me a sense of meaning and purpose....And that’s what I want for my kids...a life of purpose and meaning.”
She breathes out a half hearted “I see” before returning to the topic of her family’s greatness. “We push our kids to reach their full potential. They need to learn that it’s a competitive world. Second place isn’t good enough. We taught them to recite the quote from Vince Lombardi, ‘Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.’ Most people are born to be followers. My kids were born to be leaders.”
This is getting infuriating. At what point does pushing your kids become child abuse? My first inclination is to ignore her but the compulsion to speak is now overwhelming.
“How do they learn life skills?” I asked. “How do they learn from their mistakes? In any competition, disappointment and failure are inevitable for everyone at some point. Don’t they need coping mechanisms. Don’t they need to learn healthy and gracious ways of accepting victory and defeat?”
“Not at all,” Luanne coldly answers. “Discussion of defeat is not permitted. In our trophy room, we keep a plaque with a quote by Knute Rockne, ‘Show me a good and gracious loser, and I’ll show you a failure.’”
I really don’t like this woman. But in a strange way, I’m curious. What drives her to dehumanize her kids? Usually, I found that parents who push their kids to be super competitive are dealing with their own unresolved issues. Their kids are stand-ins for their own unfulfilled dreams and desires. I decide to probe a bit.
“Luanne,” I ask sounding innocently, “we’re you competitive in the past? Was it in sports? Academics?”
“Yes,” the tall blonde answers. “I was a beauty queen once. I was second runner-up in the Miss Texas pageant. I should have won...That...bitch....cheated! Then she went on to win Miss USA. That should have been...ME! Her voice becomes low pitched, the eyebrows furrow, the jaw clenches. Clearly, this is a sensitive issue with her so I change the topic.
“Did you go to college.”
The jaw clenches even more. The voice is barely audible; her look of distress becomes obvious.
“I had a scholarship to Rice University...,”she starts.
“Very nice,” I respond.
“No...”, she replies. “I didn’t...finish....I...had....to...leave.” The face contorts into a look of sheer anguish. I now realize I walked into a land mine. Whatever pain in her life I tapped into, it was time to reverse course immediately.
“Luanne, it’s OK. We don’t need to talk about it,” I said. Meanwhile, I’m wondering. Did she have failing grades? Did she get pregnant? Was she thrown out for disciplinary reasons? But at this point, it’s clear this is a painful topic that needs to be dropped. Luanne’s face looks flushed, and she is trying to hold back her emotional distress over her aborted college career. “So what do you like to do in your free time? Do you have hobbies?”
“Yes,” she answers. “I have hobbies.” She appears to be feeling hot as she peeled off her sweater. “Yes indeed, I have a hobby.”
As she pulls the sweater over her head, she reveals a blue T shirt underneath. To my shock, fastened to the chest of her T shirt is a shiny...catpin! I act ignorant.
“Tell me about your hobby, Luanne.”
“Well, I compete with other women.”
“What is it?” I ask. “Do you play card games?” Now I’m really acting dumb.
“No,” she answers. “I compete with other women in physical contests. My body against hers. My wits against hers. It’s primal combat. We continue until one of us surrenders, her spirit and will broken.”
“You mean a fight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To prove myself. To prove I am the better woman. I especially like fighting other moms. I love the feeling of forcing them to submit. To hear them proclaim my superiority. To place my foot on their broken, blubbering bodies. I want everyone to know that my children’s mom conquered the others. I owe it to my children to prove myself over the other moms. When they are old enough to understand, I want my children to know that I lived by the same standard I set for them. That I was the reflection of perfection.”
I found myself feeling stirred. Something told me this wasn’t right. This woman’s emotional stability seems at least questionable. But her words seared through me like a challenge.
“So you’re a catfighter?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your record?”
“7-0”
“OK, mine is 3-0.” I replied.
“What?” she asked in confusion as I slipped off my hoodie, exposing my own catpin fastened to my black T shirt.
“Well, what do you know,” I crowed. “Catpin...catpin. You know what this means.
“Yes,” Luanne answered back. “Let’s settle this. But where?”
For a minute, we discussed logistics. We both had plans the rest of the day. Our girls would be finished with dance class in 45 minutes. We considered outside around the back of the dance school but that area was exposed to traffic. Surely, our fight would be broken up. We both pulled out our date books to select a future day and time.
An office door opens off from the waiting room. “Uh, oh,” says a voice. “Looks like we have ourselves a catfight.”
It was Bernice, the owner of the dance school. Bernice is a former professional ballerina. Now in her early forties, her compact 5’3” 110 lb. body was tightly solid with undoubtedly powerful legs and core. Dressed in tights and leotards, her black hair up in a bun, away from her delicate features, Bernice chortles, “Good thing I don’t have my catpin today or I’d have to take on both of you, one at a time. Despite Bernices small frame, I’m not sure I’d be so quick to take her on.
“Here’s the deal, ladies,” Bernice proposes. “I have an empty studio you can use to settle your differences. There will be privacy. You both have daughters to pick up in 45 minutes. Since I’m the host, I’m imposing a 30 minute time limit. Since you need to be presentable to your girls, no closed fist punching, kicking and no scratching to the face. I suggest a topless blue jeans fight in bare feet. Any items in the room may come into play. Fight to a submission. I will record the fight and declare the winner. If no submission in 30 minutes, the fight is a draw. After the fight, please get yourselves together to pick up your daughters. Luanne, do you agree to these terms?”
“Yes,” answers the blonde mom.
“Kiva, do you agree to these terms?” Bernice asks.
I wasn’t thrilled with giving up my best weapon of the right hand punch, but I figured I could slap her into next week.
“I accept”
“Very good,” said the former ballerina. “Ladies, come this way.” The petite but tough looking dancer took us down a short hallway as she fumbled for her keys, finally unlocking a thick door.
“Here we are,” she said as she lead us into a sprawling empty studio. “1000 square feet for you to rumble,” she informed.
The room was certainly large. One entire wall was taken up by a glassless mirror. On the opposite side was a long grounded balancing barre with two suspended horizontal beams set to 3 feet and 4.5 feet off the ground. The wall on the same side contained embedded hooks to be used as pulleys for leg stretching exercises. The floor was covered with a soft vinyl surface instead of traditional hardwood. Scattered over the floor were several rubber elastic bands for stretching exercises.
Bernice positioned Luanne and me about ten feet apart. “Ladies,” she ordered, please remove your footwear and I will take them to the side. I quickly peeled off my Nike sneakers and athletic socks as my opponent carefully wriggled off her beautiful, I presumed hand crafted boots with their intricate engraving of eagle’s wings. I liked how my bare feet gripped the vinyl floor. Slippage would not be a problem.
“Now, I need you two to remove your shirts and bras and hand them over,” our hostess orders.
We were already out of my hoodie and her sweater. We both pull off out T shirts and look at each other for a moment. My bra is a simple white underwire Maidenform purchased at Target’s while Luanne is wearing a black half padded lingerie bra. We both reach around our backs to undo the hooks, then pulling our bras overhead, as our bare breasts spill out. We dutifully give the garments to Bernice who places them on a chair to the side.
“May I suggest some stakes?” The school owner asks. “The winner gets free tuition for her daughter for one year. And the loser’s bra will be handed over to the winner.” Neither one of us object.
With both of us topless, the eyeing process and posturing really heats up. With our hands on our hips, we stare at each other intently. For the first time, I’m facing a larger opponent, giving away two inches and 10-15 lbs. Luanne’s breasts are bigger at 35D to my 34C. Her nipples are larger. Our blue jeans are high at the waist, the belt lines just below our belly buttons. Luanne is wearing western style Wrangler’s compared to my Ralph Lauren designer jeans. My finger and toenail polish is deep red in contrasts to the blonde’s pink..
We approach each other for a stare down. We roll back our shoulders. My opponent clearly wants to assert her larger breasts as she positions herself to touch her nipples to mine.
“Another mediocre mom who needs to be put in her place,” she snarls.
“Stop living your life through your kids,” I shoot back. She looks at me like she wants to take my head off. Bernice repositions back to a ten foot distance from each other.
“Ready Ladies,” she instructs....”FIGHT!”
We rush at each other with are hands up high in a neutral wrestling position. We grab on to each others’ arms, grappling, pushing and pulling, trying to send each other off balance. Our feet dance around on the vinyl floor, struggling for position in which to launch an attack. I sense we’re instinctively trying to protect our breasts as are hands maintain their grips on each other’s arms. Finally, Luanne, with a hard jerk of my left arm, gains the advantage and swings me around before letting go. I stagger several yards but stay upright.
I have little time to react as the perfect mom comes charging. With her focus on tits and upper body, I suspect she wants a bear hug. I was right. As she wraps her arms around me, I keep my arms tucked to my side and hold her around the waist. For a few moments, we squeeze and grunt and push into each other. Finally, Luanne achieved one of her goals; she positions her chest against mine. Our boobs flatten out against each other but Luanne’s size and strength advantage take effect. She manages to lift me up to my toes, and powers forward, driving her legs and shoulders while continuing to press her breasts into mine. I’m helplessly driven backward until my back crashes into the wall.
She continues to press me against the wall as I release my grip from around her waist and try to slap the back of her head and shoulders. She backs off slightly, just enough to fire her knee into my abdomen, causing me to gasp and bend over. I know another one is coming so ai raise up my own knee to block. I grab her ponytail behind her head and she manages to do the same to me.
Luanne’s strength advantage allows her to forcefully yank me away from the wall, although I maintain my grip on her hair. We pull each other’s ponytail and slap with our free hands to the head and body, yelling and shrieking as we spin around each other.
“Keep the noise, down, ladies,” Bernice warns. “Kids are in the next room.”
Again, Luanne’s size advantage allows her to take control as her slaps and hair pulls have me reeling. She lets go of my hair, as I stumble out of control. Seeing her opportunity, the former second runner up to Miss Texas dives at my legs, taking me down.
I find myself on the floor. Instinctively, I roll onto my belly to cover up as I know she will pounce. Sure enough, I feel a knee on the middle of my back. My head is forced back as she again pulls my ponytail. In front of me is the mirrored wall. Her hands shift from my hair to my chin as she pulls back into a chin lock, her knee wedged between my shoulder blades. In the mirror, I see my face is red, twisted into an expression of agony. I see Luanne’s look of sadistic arrogance.
“Not very smart, Phi Beta Kappa,” she taunts. “You’re very lucky, bitch. My opponent’s usually don’t get the privilege of witnessing their own suffering. You’re getting to watch the work of a master.”
On the other side of the wall, I hear the sound of little feet marching to the gentle melody of “Put on a Happy Face.” I try to stiffen my neck as pain shoots through my upper spine. Finally, I feel the tension break as Luanne releases my chin, letting my face fall to the floor. The relief, however, is very short lived. I feel a pair of arms snake beneath my armpits, the hands interlocking behind my head, grinding my forehead to the vinyl floor. Realizing, I’m trapped in a full nelson, I flap my arms uselessly.
“You’re so smart,” Luanne jeers. “Figure your way out of this one.” With her legs straddling my sides, the mom with perfect kids stands up, pulling me up to my knees, holding on to the full nelson. Swinging my head and arms side to side, she pulls me to my feet. “Stand up,” she barks.
My chin forced into my upper breast bone, I see my tits dangling toward the floor as she walks me back several yards toward the balance barre. I see my bare feet at the end of my blue jeans trying to gain traction. Again, she swings me back and forth, finally flinging me off as I go stumbling off balance. I have no time to recover as she quickly goes on the attack, pushing my head down and locking in a front face lock. The familiar pain shoots through the back of my neck. I realize we are standing at the end of the barre. Luanne positions me over the upper bar, doubling me over, pressing my boobs into the upper bar. She releases the face lock, and lies across my back, dropping down with all her weight, crushing my breasts against the wooden beam. I let out a shriek as she holds me there for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, the tormentor takes her weight off my back and fired off a slap, sending me reeling. Off balance, I have no time to react as she rushes at my legs, sending me to the floor in a double leg tackle. I twist on to my belly, then push myself up to my knees, when Luanne, from behind, yanks my ponytail back with one hand and twists my right arm behind my back with the other. Once again, I’m facing my distressed image in the wall mirror. My reddened breasts bear the indentation from the balance beam pressed into them.
“Look at you,” Luanne growls, “that’s what mediocrity looks like. A complete waste of a Phi Beta Kappa spot. And teaching your kids to accept mediocrity...Disgraceful!...You’re going to learn what excellence is all about!”
She forces my head forward, driving me back onto my belly as she straddles my back. I cover my head with my arms, and for a brief moment, Luanne has removed herself from my back. I hear the muffled music and children’s voices behind the wall singing, “The Wheels on the Bus.”
I don’t know my opponent’s position. Instinctively, I know I should roll away. But then, I hear a vicious shriek. I feel a slapping, stinging strike to the middle of my back. I hear the loud ominous cracking sound, as if from a whip. Stunned, I try to move away, but I am struck again. The primal scream, the loud snap, the whipping of flesh. The nerve endings of my back are being seared. I force myself to roll over. I knew it.
Luanne stands over me, her right arm raised. In her hand is a blue soft rubber stretch exercise band. In an instance, the weapon comes down slapping, stinging, scourging my belly.
“Oooh Yeah,” she bellows. The cxnt horse whips me again as I try to block the strikes with my arms. As she continues the assault, red welts appear on my belly, back and arms. Finally, I roll away, as the crazed mom chases, lashing at me with the band. Between loud “thwaps” of rubber striking the floor, my flesh, or both, I move toward an adjacent wall.
On my belly, I feel the taller blonde pounce on my back as we wrestle on the floor. I manage to buck her off but she has a superior position, grabbing my legs and turning me on my back. Trapped against the wall, she folds me up into a near matchbook pin. She tucks both my feet under her armpit and reaches around to her back pocket. I didn’t realize her plan until it was too apparent. In a flash, Luanne winds the stretch band around my ankles, tying my feet together. I squirm and kick but the bitch has my legs immobilized as my back is on the floor with my head and shoulders pressed against the wall. I realize I’m helpless. Next, she pulls out a second band and loops it through the band tying up my ankles, finally stretching it to the wall, looping the band onto a wall hook used for stretching.
With my feet up in the air and tethered to the wall, Luanne takes advantage and resumes her whipping. Using my arms to protect my boobs and head, the flogging manages to create more welts on my belly and shoulders. Twice I manages to grasp on to her ankles before she manages to kick away. I realize if I pull my legs as hard as possible away from the hook, the stretching of the band creates more slack. I now feel the hook attachment loosening. As Luanne continues her flagellation, I focus all my effort to raising my hips as high as possible, straightening my legs, and pulling up my ankles until....finally, the loop of rubber band lifts off the hook. I allow my legs to drop to the floor, my feet are still tied together.
I know Luanne is again on the attack, so I roll across the floor as she pursues, whip in hand. I take several more lashings until I roll hard directly into her legs, wrapping my arms around her ankles and tripping her to the floor. Again, we grapple across the vinyl. I’m at a huge disadvantage with my feet tied so I go all out pulling hair, scratching arms, clawing tits. She tries to do the same as we are wailing like wildcats. Finally, on my back, I kick Luanne in the crotch with my bound feet, doubling her over, buying myself a few seconds. Quickly, I manage to untie the stretch band from my ankles, and for the first time in what seems like a very long time, I stand.
“You fucking bitch,” Luanne growls as she straightens her self up. Our eyes glaring, our teeth clenched, our claws out, we lunge at each other. The fight is now a whirlwind of slapping hands, hair pulling, and tit grabbing. The pretense of trying to keep our voices down is gone as we both let out shrieks trying to inflict pain on each other. Finally, with a chance to use my right hand, I fire a slap to Luanne’s face that nearly turns her head around. A second roundhouse misses and just like that, Luanne grabs my right arms and folds my wrist back into a wrist lock, taking away my best weapon.
Grunting and groaning, my left hand finds Luanne’s ponytail and I pull until she releases my right hand. She returns the favor, pulling my hair as we yank and spin each around, finally losing our balance and tumbling to the floor.
Luanne scrambles on top of me. I feel my arms stretched over my head and pinned to the floor. I feel a long pair of blue jean clad legs snake around my own, stretching my limbs. I now realize I’m grapevined. I can barely move. The pull on my muscles hurt but I try not to show it. I resist the best I can.
“Give up?” Luanne asks. “You’re trapped like a rat.”
“No,” I respond. If this were a pin wrestling match, I would have lost. I know Luanne could hold me here for a long time and win a war of attrition as I could only lie here for so long stiff and sore. I continue to resist.
“Fine,” she says. “I guess I just have to finish you off more forcefully. She slaps me across the face before releasing the grapevine and standing on her feet. She turns to retrieve her whip on the floor.
I quickly turn over and pull myself to my knees. This time, I’m not rolling away. That approach would assure a matter of time before I lose. This time, I’m fighting back.
As Luanne approached me snapping her rubber band, I charged her low, backing her up against the wall. With my arms around her knees, I lifted her off her feet, her back pressed against the dry wall. With her draped over my shoulder, I felt her slapping and scratching by back. Holding on to her legs, and holding her like a sack, I turned her away from the wall. With squirming and hitting combined with her weight advantage, I could not maintain control. I stumbled and staggered as I tried to carry my opponent. Finally, I pitched forward, unintentionally slamming Luanne’s back into the upper wood beam of the balancing barre, splintering the bar in half as we crashed to the floor.
Both of us stunned, I get to my knees, as Luanne lies on her belly. Her back has several abrasions from the broken beam. She tries to roll but I stop her and mount her. Pulling her arms behind her back as I scoop up a nearby band.
In just a few seconds, I have my opponent’s hands wrapped and tied. Next I looped the other end of the band around the metal post of the balancing barre. Using a technique from nursing, I applied a quick release knot, used to subdue violent patients. The beauty of a quick release knot is that it tightens as the patient resists but a nurse can release it with a gentle tug.
“You bitch,” Luanne snarls. She is on her knees but unable to stand as her hands are tied behind her. Her tits are helplessly exposed. I stretch the rubber band like a sling shot and release it as the rubber snaps Luanne’s left tit, causing her to squeal. I repeat the procedure on the right breasts as tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
“Give up Luanne. It’s over,” I advise her.
“Fuck you, loser,” she shoots back.
I need to end this quickly. I knelt on the floor, positioning myself behind Luanne. Turning my red painted fingernails into talons, I dug into her breasts, drilling my index fingers into her nipples.
“Stop, I give up,” she screams. “Please stop.”
I slowly rise to my feet and stretch. I’m covered with welts and red marks from my waist to my shoulders. Luanne is sobbing tied to the barre post. I can’t resist a parting taunt.
“Someday,” I tell her matter-of-factly, “you can tell your children how you got beat by an underachieving nurse....And one other thing,” I added....”Tell Knute Rockne he can go fuck himself.”
Bernice raises my hand and presents me with Luanne’s bra. “Good fight, girls,” she says. “Now get yourselves together. Your girls will be out soon.” I hear the muffled little voices singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” next door.
I go to untie Luanne, when I’m startled by her loud uncontrollable crying.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she bleats out. “I’m sorry I lost. I’m sorry I failed. Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry.”
I quickly release her binds. I’m unsettled by the eerie display. “Luanne, get yourself together. For your daughter,” I urge her.
“I’ll take her,” Bernice offers, as she helps Luanne to her feet and leads her to a bathroom.
Alone, I feel creeped out. Maybe someday, I’ll learn Luanne’s full backstory and why she left Rice University. Maybe someday it’ll be easy to see how she pushes ridiculous expectations on her kids. Right now, I just feel the resolve to be the best parent I can be.
I won’t be fighting or wearing a bra anytime soon as I have healing to go through. I stuffed Luanne’s bra and my own into the front pocket of the hoodie. I grab a drink of water and try to look presentable. Parents are gathering in the waiting room as the class is ready to let out. To my surprise, Luanne is among us without any visible signs of distress.
The door opens as the little ones file out. I see my angel holding hands with another little girl.
“Mommy, this is Madison. She’s my friend.”
“Mommy, this is my friend, Clarissa,” the other little girl tells Luanne. “Can we have a play date?”
“That would be so cool,” my daughter beams excitedly.”
“Yes,” added Madison. “We could get our two moms together.”
It’s been a few days, and my sore boobs and flogged skin are healing. My daughter’s report card came online today through the parent’s portal. The school uses a standards based system that measures level of proficiency for various components of learning for a given subject. I read Clarissa’s report card with her. Language Arts - Advanced Proficiency, Science - Advanced Proficiency, Social Studies - Advanced Proficiency, Mathematics - Limited Proficiency.
“Let’s talk about Math,” I said. Clarissa looks at me with large sad blue eyes.
“Are you mad, Mommy,” she asks.
“No, I’m not mad,” I whisper as I hug her.....“It just means we have a lot to improve on next time.
