Thursday, January 05, 2006


Usually, you like to meet your child's teacher. Smile. Say hi. All that. Not in ballet class, not when you have only one hour a week to teach a bunch of nutcracker princess wanna-be's.

My daughter's ballet class:

Every child, a girl. Every outfit the same pale pink Target leotard with variations only in ruffle or no ruffle, long sleeve or short sleeve. Every child in a pink frilly tutu. Pale pink leotards varying only in footless or footed. Ballet shoes, three-quarters the Target terry cloth 'i'm not sure my kid will go through with this' pair, the rest, the nice proper ones. The two stand-out girls in the class? One girl who DARED don black ballet shoes. How brave. And the other, a red-head who DARED wear a bright fuschia leotard. Yes, you could call it a member of the pink family, but really, that's a brave color for the soft pastel world of ballet. I liked her. My daughter? Pale pink leotard with a heart embroidered in silver beads. Pale pink footless tights. Pale pink frilly tutu. Pale pink Target ballet shoes. She complained about the ballet shoes. She wants the proper kind. I told her if she sticks through the first ten weeks of weekly ballet classes, she can get the proper slippers.

My sons?

Terrors. I was glared out of the parent observation class. They ran in both directions. One made a dash into the class until I ran in, other boy tucked under my arm like a football, his feet dangling, and pulled the other boy out by dragging him. One hour of ballet for my daughter, one hour of aerobics for me.

Next week, I am bringing toys.

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