Recently, little princess decided it was time for her to start ballerina class. With two brothers finally at school it was clearly her time to do a bit of dazzling. So every Thursday we glam up and head on down the highway. I can’t begin to tell you how much I love these Thursday classes. I refer to them as my weekly therapy. There is something about your perfect little person trying bizarre and unnatural positions with such joy and zest that really warms the heart.
We are actually quite understated in our attire. We usually go for a cotton top and a chiffon base with minimal sparkle. The other girls are usually more sparkly. Today we had a black swan complete with tight bun. She only started last week but her mum has a bun too so I’m thinking there may be ballerina lineage there. The rest of the mums are pretty relaxed, which suits the dilapidated dwelling in which we gather each week. We are country town dwellers so the nearest class is still a LONG way from city sophistication which is a good thing. The teacher is warm, non-anorexic and friendly. The owner is a bit heffalump-ish and formal, except for the tracksuit she wears which is very informal. She comes in and checks their toes from time to time.
There’s a Grandma who brings her Granddaughter, Esther. She does ballet followed by tap and prior to that, she starts her Thursday with a swimming class. I kinda feel that’s a lot of classes for a four year old. Esther hasn’t really warmed to ballerina class. When the lovely ballerina teacher tells the Giselle’s to tap lightly on the floor with their little pointed toes so as not to wake the fairies, Esther jumps up and down trying to kill them. When the lovely ballerina teacher tells then to walk quietly as they are not footballers, Esther declares she wants to be a footballer. I’m sot sure she’d find the time considering how many classes she attends. I think perhaps she may be low on sugar. Or a little tired. Her Grandmother spends a lot of time watching her phone trying to avoid Esther’s many commands for toilet, water, food etc. She is probably tired too with all the too-ing and fro-ing to classes.
Last week was the beginning of our second term of ballerina class. Baby girl and I were excited to be back to our routine but I received a nasty shock as we entered the dance studio. The lovely teacher was on one side of the door and the heffalump on the other explaining to us that in term two, no adults were allowed in the studio. I use the word “studio” here very loosely. We were welcome to stare through the small glass porthole in the studio door, but that was as far as wecould go. I was devastated. I stood glued to the door watching the little girls having fun on the other side of the glass like I was some demented bubble girl. The next week, other mothers joined me whispering how sad they were not to be inside with our shiny ballerinas, but none brave enough to go to the heffalump and demand we be allowed back in.
My ballerina doesn’t care. She still enters and leaves with the same amount of joy, a little bit more grown up each week. I guess that pane of glass is the first step of letting my baby grow. Soon it will be more kindergarten hours, then school…..and then my babies are all flown. I hold on so tight because this is my last baby and I know now how the clock ticks so fast and if I look away for a moment I will miss these last rays of tiny childliness with all it’s wonder and perfection. I breathe her in with such gratefulness. The third child who was a girl, not a boy. Who followed a miscarriage and who was never planned. My miracle that every night I still watch with such awe. After four years I can still not believe she is here.
She holds my hand as we leave the class. We plan our next adventure together, but first it’s time for coffee and cake. We have much to chat about.