That pretty much sums it up. . . .
It’s Monday and we’ve hit the ground running. Thankfully, DH is taking off the next couple of days to get down and dirty in the trenches with me, running hither, thither, and yon for the sake of toddler entertainment.
Today was Mo’s first ballet class. I have been looking forward to this more than she has, let me tell you. Her interest ebbs and flows like the tide. For instance, when we went to sign up, she was all about it. No doubt that fire was fanned by our instructor, Miss M, who insisted that Mo try on some ballet slippers “just to get an idea” of what dance is all about. Gee, thanks Miss M. We planned to sign up, don’t get me wrong, but once those slippers went on, Mo was like Dorothy minus the gingham dress. Those shoes weren’t coming off. And it was as if she realized she was Judith Jamison or something. All of a sudden, she was demanding an ensemble to go with the slippers.
Off and on until today, I would gently remind Mo that she would be starting dance class in July. This often elicited a response of, “I don’t want to” or something to that effect. Rather than get insistent, I just told her that that was okay and maybe she’d change her mind when the time came. Yes, I was breaking my own arm patting myself on the back for keeping it together like that.
Anyway, today was the day and both DH and I were trying to impress upon Mo the importance of listening and following directions. A conversation like that, of course, is best described as shoveling shit against the tide (thanks, Mom, for such colorful euphemisms). Mo was resplendent in her pink tights, leotard, and skirt, and you would think she’d be eating it up. Sadly, no. This little biscuits decides, “I need to wear my green tutu. I need it. I need it. “And, like any good parents, we try to explain, rationalize and paint a broad picture as to why the green tutu stays at home, only to be used for dress-ups. Yeah, that went over like a lead balloon. Hence the pitiful pucker on our prima ballerina.
Despite the face, the class was a rousing success. Moms get to observe via a one way mirror. Six little cotton candy clad dancers with no sense of rhythm twirling more into eachother and the wall than in any one fixed spot is hilarious. Mo, despite our best efforts, really gave Miss M a run for her money as far as listening goes. More than once, Miss M reminded Mo that she (Miss M) was the teacher and not Mo, no matter how many times or how loudly Mo said otherwise. Oy, I’m shaking my head just thinking about it now. I hated to see her called out like that, but I was glad Miss M teaches with an iron fist in a silken glove. It couldn’t have been that bad for Mo, either. She didn’t want to take off her dancewear (big surprise) and said she’d probably go back next week.
