The other day after school, I took advantage of a rare stint as the responding parent (my schedule has me working several evenings, meaning I am rarely home when the kids get home, and I thought I would like it, but, um, turns out I miss the chaos of backpacks and lunch boxes and clamoring little voices telling me about their days) and helped Dorothy practice getting ready for dance.
Her class is RIGHT after school. Like, 18 minutes after the last bell rings. It's about an 11-minute drive to dance, so she has SEVEN MINUTES to get home, put her stuff on, and jump in the car. YIKES.
Cooper bought a magic 8 ball with some of his birthday money, and Dorothy quizzes it incessantly about whether she'll be good at dance this year. At first I thought she meant well-behaved, but then I realized she meant, like, good. How cute/terrifying s that?
I cleared my schedule to be able to take her because she needs help, I would imagine, changing from ballet shoes to tap shoes, and it's her first year in a big kid class; her adorable little preschool classes were mid-afternoon and easy to attend on time). But then, of course, a meeting popped up on my calendar that I couldn't refuse. Ben will take her, in between running other kids other places (it's a day when they all have an activity). Part of me feels guilty because there are 12 dance classes this semester, and I can got to 7 of them. Part of me just doesn't want to miss it because our dance class ritual was something I came to love the past 2 years.
If I am being honest, the practice was for her to see if she can get her ballet slippers on (NOPE) and off (yes, but she just sort of flings them behind her, and I cannot imagine this will be any different in the studio, so I wrote her name inside them) and her tap shoes on (YES). I also wanted to see if she could handle the sensory prison of her tights (yes, if they're footless) and put on her own leotard (sort of-- yes if it is already right-side out, but I suck at laundry, so). But mostly, I just wanted to see this: