(This was her pose--and her own ruby cheeks. She's always had them. When she was a baby, people used to ask if I had put blush on her. I didn't . . . and don't.)
I always wanted to be a dancer. It wasn't it the cards for me, but you know how we mothers are: if we wanted it when we were kids, we're going to figure out a way to get it for ours. Our three oldest are in dance of some kind or other. Uh, oh. I find myself with the urgent need to leap up on my soap box. Skip it, if you want.
We have a strict not-until-you're-six rule at our house. Anything younger than that and the parents are wasting time, money, energy, and gas for lessons. This rule goes for music, dance, sports, Et cetera--any lesson for which you have to pay to play. When they do get to finally participate, they really want to. We have found that it takes only a super short time for them to catch up to the kids who have been in class since they were two. Also, it's good for children to play, undirected. Even once they start the lessons, they should be fun until they are nine or ten. Then it's okay for (I even encourage) the teacher to lay down the law and teach the kid to push for improvement. Side caveat which will result in a good deal of hate mail. I'm sorry, but there it is.
Anyway, Christmas means recitals. Am I the only boob out there? I can watch my child at every practice for months with little emotion, but once they are on stage, the flood gates open. I snivel and sob at each leap and turn. My babies are growing up! (Wah, gulp, sob!!!)
I didn't get a picture of my boy. Crap. Well, he looked good, too. He makes me cry 'cause he is a ten year old boy who is enjoys ballet--and can take the heat of being the only boy doing it. And 'cause he still gets kinda grossed out by the fact that he has to touch girls in order to lift or turn them. Ewww. He also likes basketball and running.
I hope you enjoyed all of your Christmas/Holiday/Winter concerts/recitals/shows this year.