So my girl has this new thing: when we are at the top of the stairs, she gives a long, deep, rolling bow & says, “After you, my highness. My darling.” And then I pass her and begin the descent downstairs, after giving some highly emphatic, Shakespeare praises & salutations of my own. This adds a good minute or so to the walk downstairs. More of this when we get to the bottom.
You can imagine how grandiose we become when preparing for our little mother-daughter ballet time. There is the hair–sweeping it up in a ballet bun. We are bun to toes, PINK. We “I feel like a ballet dancer”, she says. And she is.
Today’s class was held in her room with a lush score provided by my Kindle.
We started as butterflies springing our folded in legs to butterflies sunning ourselves, arms unfolding and getting strong in the sun.
We heard music that sounded like the windy storm from two nights ago. My girl became a baby bird swirling in between cold wet drops. We pointed and flexed and swept across her floor. There’s no one else I’d rather wear a leotard for.