Last month, we enrolled Emma in a dance class.
Not tap. Not ballet. We had tried both of these with Sofia a couple years back and there were too many things to keep straight. Tap shoes. Ballet slippers. The acceptable color combinations of leotards, tights and tutus. Approved hairstyles. Expensive recital costumes. Plus one very disapproving instructor. I think the technical term is Prima Ballemeanie.
She hated me. I'd rush home from work to get Sofia to class and sidle into the studio five minutes late, only to be greeted with a tight little smile and ice dagger eyes.
Sofia loved it, but never really got the hang of following instructions or standing quietly at a spot on the floor. She's a happy, spirited little kid and everything was a little too formal. What's the point of dressing up like a princess if you can't live life out loud?
So, this time we were gonna get it right. If Sofia is a free spirit, then Emma, at four, is more like her own little independent island nation. She bows to no one. The class at the Y seemed perfect. Once a week for six weeks. Cheerfully cheap, and best of all, short on rules and regulations. The only requirement was for Emma to be in comfy shoes.
My wife Val took Emma to the first class and giddily reported back that Emma had a great time. Also, another little girl's daddy had rushed her into class without a potty break first and the poor little thing peed on the studio floor in spectacular fashion. A bumbling husband, no doubt.
The instructor called in sick for the next class.
The next week, it snowed like crazy, so when I got the kids ready for school and daycare that morning it was a mad rush of boots and snow pants and hats and gloves that mostly matched. On our way out the door I remembered it was a dance day. I grabbed Emma's pink sneakers and shoved them into her little backpack so that when Val picked her up, she could go right from day care to dance class.
Comfy shoes. Check. One simple requirement fulfilled.
Only not. 2 shoes? Yes. Pink? Yes. Matching? Not so much. Somehow I had managed to grab one pink sneaker and one pink....sandal. 2 seasons old and a size too small. How it crawled out of the cabinet of unused shoes and made it's way to the doormat, I'll never know, but seriously, I only had to get one thing right.
Luckily, between Val and our superstar daycare girl Jen, Emma still managed to make it to dance with matching footwear.
I got to take Emma to her final dance class myself and it was glorious. She jumped. She skipped. She twirled. She loudly and excitedly pointed out the girl who had peed her pants. She danced some more. Then, with ten minutes still to go, she stopped, ran over to me and said "I'm done daddy. I want to go home." She was asleep before I had even pulled out of the parking lot.
Sometimes dance classes end not with a recital, but with a tiny snore.
