From the time I first knew I was having a baby girl, I dreamed of the day I could sign her up for ballet class and dress her in a pale pink tutu.
So as soon as she turned three years old, I signed her up for a weekly ballet class.
Which, soon after, became known as my weekly beating.
Oh sure, she loved the tap shoes and the ballet slippers. She loved the leotards and the tutus. She loved watching herself in the mirror as she performed all sorts of dance moves, none of which happened to be the same routine the class was actually doing.
But because I had a deep-seated need to see my baby girl perform in a dance recital, and am also constantly searching for ways to make my life more difficult, I signed her up to participate in the recital and wrote a check for upwards of more money than I care to admit to pay for the costume.
What I envisioned was a delicate little pink tutu with yards and yards of tulle. The reality was a hot pink costume with glaring polka dots complete with a huge neon yellow bow to wear on top of her head. It was a costume that would cause Charo to say, “Wow. It’s a little gaudy.”
And then as soon as the recital check cleared the bank, Caroline decided she didn’t like dance anymore.
I barely survived that year of ballet. In fact, it’s hard to talk about even now.
It’s as if some latent stage mother tendencies rose up in me and caused me to act like a crazy woman. Next thing you know I could have found myself sitting backstage saying, “Sweetie, put down the sippy cup and let’s get this eyeliner on before we take out your hot rollers and tease your hair.”
I wept with relief when Caroline announced that she was done with ballet.
But now, after a year off, she has decided to enter back in to the dance arena.
And I will support her because that is what parents do. It’s just like when my mama bought me those new roller skates with green wheels and a stopper because I had set my sights on becoming a professional roller skater.
I blame the movie “Xanadu” for that ill-fated career ambition.
When I went to sign her up for lessons, the instructor informed me that Caroline would have to retake the class for beginners because she sat out for a year.
Of course everyone knows the year you turn four is crucial for proper dance mechanics.
I was okay with it because it seemed to be dance studio policy, but on the day of her first lesson I noticed she was about a foot taller than any of the other little girls in her class.
And also, one of the only ones not wearing a Huggies Pull-Up since the beginner class is really more for three-year-olds, which explains why it was the class she took when she was three.
She thoroughly enjoyed the class the first week because she knew all the music, plus she was kind of the star of the show if for no other reason than that she didn’t tee-tee in her leotard.
But then after last week she told me she didn’t want to be in a class with babies.
Yesterday I called the dance studio and explained that Caroline was the only five-year-old in a class of three-year-olds. Was there any way she could move up to the class with the other five year olds?
They told me to show up for our scheduled class and they would evaluate her abilities to see if she could be promoted.
What exactly are we evaluating? Her ability to hold Barney in front of her while she points her toe out to the side? Or maybe her ability to pretend to be a firetruck as the whole class runs screaming around the room in their little ballet shoes? Or perhaps her proper use of the fake binoculars as they play the theme song from “Dora the Explorer”?
You just know that’s exactly how Baryshnikov got his start.
I gently explained that it’s not so much about her brilliant interpretation of Dora the Explorer leaping through the rain forest as much as the fact that she knows how to go to the bathroom by herself.
And with those kind of ballet goals, it’s just a matter of time before she wins the role of Sugarplum Fairy.