[img]958|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img]Dateline Boston — My S.O. and I are taking care of our dear friends’ two kids for the weekend. Lucas, 7, and Rose, 3, have different activities on Saturday morning. I elect to take Rose to her ballet class, which starts at 9. We have a leisurely morning, making breakfast, playing Bingo. Suddenly, it’s 8:40, and I rush around to get Rose ready. I put her in her ballet outfit — pink leotard, sweater, ballet shoes. Wait, no. You don’t put on ballet shoes until you get to class, right? I put her sneakers on and put the ballet shoes in her bag with her street clothes. We rush out of the house. S.O. gives us a ride, and we arrive just in time, at 8:58. Whew! I realize, as we get out of the car, that I have forgotten Rose’s ballet bag, and thus, her ballet shoes. I am a horrible babysitter. S.O. volunteers to go get the bag, so I bring Rose upstairs to at least make sure they know she’s there.
[img]1275|left|||no_popup[/img]The ballet students, all 3-year-olds, are adorable. Each one has every piece of her outfit on. Everyone’s hair is perfectly coiffed. My girl has no shoes and bed head. I smile weakly at the teachers and parents. Rose takes her place on a mat, the furthest from where I am standing so that when I finally get her shoes, it will be impossible to put them on her without making a scene. Thanks, Rose. I panic that she will slip and fall without her shoes, and it will be my fault. We’ll go to the ER instead of out to lunch. I pray that she doesn’t do any fancy moves.
He Forgot What?
I go downstairs to wait for S.O. He’s supposed to take the stroller out of the trunk so Rose can ride home, and I can get a good walk in. I know he will forget to bring the stroller because he’s thinking about the bag. He drives by so he can park, then runs out with the bag. He forgets the stroller. I gasp, “I need the stroller!” and grab the bag. My hands are shaking as I take them both, thank him, and run back upstairs.
At what seems like an opportune time, I wave Rose over and try to shove her little feet into her ballet slippers. I feel like the Prince putting the glass slipper on one of the mean stepsisters. Of course this method doesn’t work. I take a deep breath and try again. It works. I remember to tuck the laces in her shoes as she had requested, and she goes off for her next dance move. Now I can sit down and relax. Whew!
(Note to readers: If you ever want to de-stress, go observe a ballet class for 3-year-olds. It’s about the cutest thing you can imagine. And cheaper than therapy, as I remarked to a mom sitting next to me).
After a while, I look around the room and notice that none of the grownups watching the class have shoes on. Whoops, I guess there’s a no-shoe policy in the dance studio. I take my shoes off and try to relax. What else have I done that isn’t right? I read something recently where a parent said that parenting is all about trying not to mess things up. Ain’t it the truth!
Who are these teachers? Former ballet students? There are 3 teachers who look to be in their 20s. They are all very nice, and the class is relaxed. They don’t say anything when the girls run to their parents in the middle of class. “Water!” one shouts at her mom. The little dancers now have wands with ribbons. They prance around, waving their wands. A couple of the wands clang to the floor.
Sometimes Rose pays attention, sometimes she stares off into space. When she is the first girl to figure out a move, I am very proud. “Good, Rose!” I say, perhaps a little too loudly. After an hour, the class is finished, and the lead teacher says, “Say thank you to your moms and dads!” Rose doesn’t move. I shout, “And your babysitters!” Rose beams, and runs into my arms. She may not have been totally prepared at the beginning of class, but we made up for it by the end. Class dismissed!
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com
