I have joined a new cult. The cult of ballet. Not my ballet. Peaches’ ballet. It happened so fast and now I’m out $300 and I don’t care! Will I turn into THAT mom? Will a deep crease make its home between my eyebrows as I shuttle precious Peaches to class, insist she work harder, outshine all her six-year old competitors, keep her eye on the prize of being chosen for the elite company when she turns ten… Is that the road I’ve just stepped upon?

Dunno. We’ll see. She’s only taken one class so far. I tend to get a little, shall we say, overexcited at times. We forgive me. I’m only human after all. But seeing her in that leotard, topknot at the crown of her head. Oh sigh and double sigh!

I just hope she likes it as much as I do. I do not want to crush her spirit with ridiculous expectations, or discourage her enthusiasm by eclipsing hers with my own. Peaches likes to be contrary, independent thinker that she is.

Still, that was me, hovering outside her class, fogging up the plate glass window as I stared at my little nugget for an hour. She’s living the dream I never got to. Why did I never take ballet? Mother! Why? Oh well, water under the—I’m NOT going to use her as a vehicle for my unmanifested dreams. I am not, I tell you. Not not not.

There. That should do it.

Right?

Peaches the black lamb. On my way to buy her a pastel blue leotard and floaty skirt. Strict dress code. We were late enrolling her. Long story that would involve badmouthing the former studio we test-drove. Can’t go there. Whoops, maybe I already did.

xxx