Everything is Beautiful at the Ballet


The ‘T’ is silent.

Yes, I finally broke down and signed Kate up for ballet lessons. We struck a deal. If she did swim team and didn’t complain one iota about it, she could do ballet too. So far, she has held up her end of the bargain. She has dutifully strapped on her swim suit, fins and goggles time and time again without one whiny word since school’s been out and I couldn’t be prouder.

So I signed her up. We bought the leotard, the ballet shoes, the tights–swept her golden locks into a bun and voila! A budding ballerina. She was so giddy about getting real ballerina clothes at the dance shop, I was afraid she would become disenchanted when she discovered what grueling, disciplined, hard work ballet really is.

For some reason I pictured a past her prime, skinny old French woman in a backless leotard who still uses a cigarette holder and sips a Tab while she barks French terms at my wide-eyed ballet novice, slowly shoving her towards an eating disorder. Von-two-three! Von-two-three!

So when she hopped in the car after her first class, I braced myself and asked her, “How was it?”


But she said it with such a big smile. She glowed. Her instructors are wonderful. They put stickers on the bottoms of her ballet shoes for good work. She has a cubby. She is in ballet heaven, endless, sweat inducing, sashays, plies, and all.

So what I’m learning from all of this tutu business is this: If the uniform is beautiful enough, and the music sweet enough, my little princess will embrace hard, manual labor. So what I need is a chore uniform! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I don’t know if anything can beat pink tights, a black leotard and special little soft leather shoes, but there must be something.

First position: Make the bed. Second position: pick up the clothes…


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