You had your First Ballet Class today and you were finally headed home.
I had my spy walk with you from ballet class, saying her daughter had gone home with a friend. I heard you both on the doorstep and raced to open the front door, excited to hear your side of the story.
My spy and I adjusted ourselves onto the couch with our iced teas and cakes. You saw I’d already set the living room up, moving the furniture out of the way, and you were excitedly twirling around and around… clumsy, but sweetly.
So, my girl… tell me how class was. Start from the beginning. Show me what you learned!
I listen as you tell me how scared you were… how you finally went in even though your stomach was in knots… how the girls giggled and how you need to get your hair styled differently.
Oh, my, look at you blush! I listen as you tell me about falling down two… no, three… times trying to do the pirouettes.
But you kept going? I am proud when you tell me you did.
You sit down at my feet and I talk to my spy about perhaps the need for a tutor. She suggests one of the older girls at the dance studio and I am delighted she can already think of someone for the job!
“But,” I ponder aloud, “We will need a studio here in the house. My love, what do you say we turn the Guest Bedroom into a ballet studio for you? Would you like that?” I chuckle as you nod eagerly.
On that note, I send the spy away, you shaking her hand as thanks for walking you home, then tell you to head up to a shower and put on your teddy pjs to get ready for dinner.
I watch as you skip, nee, nearly float, upstairs, still so happy after your class.