This weekend marked the end of a six-week foray into the world of ballet and tap for Scout.
The vocabulary of ballet has integrated our three year-old’s heart and mind in earnest. Ballet slippers, pink tights, black leotards; she’s a smitten top-knot wearing, twirling fool. There is no doubt that we will continue in her instruction; she could be a ballerina in training after all.
The class, for younger girls (and boys though none were participants) was marketed as a Mommy & Me class, though I assure you that Daddy was a much more active participant than Mommy. After the first week Daddy took over the tutelage and Scout was more endeared to her father than ever. It was a sweet time for the two of them and I enjoyed the down time at home to accomplish, create, and do my otherwise housewife-ly duties. She would return home and show me the new steps she had learned and throughout the week break out in songs that I recognized from class. Daddy kindly took video of many of her shining achievements; jumping over a rope and bending backwards under a limbo stick are monumental accomplishments worthy of megabytes, I’m sure of it.
The cliché applies here; I did not take dance class as a child and I have lived vicariously through her as she has plié-d, elevé-d, sashayed, and tapped her way around the dance floor. The skill she is most capable of at her now six-week old dancing career is walking on her heels in tap shoes across the floor. She’s a heel walking prodigy; her teacher told me so.
Our budding ballerina.