Tiny Dancer

Little G started ballet yesterday, which I should note was drastically different from soccer practice at the beginning of the week in that, instead of a bunch of J. Crew-clad, juice cup-holding mommies standing around the soccer field comparing the talents, heights, weights, likes, dislikes, and eating/pooping habits of our kids, we had to do all of that while crammed into the lobby of the dance studio.

G took ballet last year, but the only thing she was able to demonstrate from the class was how to leap over a pink stuffed poodle lying on the floor. So this year we stepped it up a bit and she is attending a more professional school, where they actually learn positions and such. Walking into her classroom yesterday, the old fear gripped me as soon as I spotted the barre. I may have been 8 years old again, my hair pulled into a bun so tight I appeared as if I’d had a facelift, walking in to my own class and greeting my teacher, who usually stood in the doorway doing a split against the jamb. She had a little ruler she’d tap us with if we didn’t have proper posture. I don’t think I unclenched my ass cheeks the entire 10 years I was enrolled. (Pity I didn’t carry out my learnings later in life, as my shoulders typically look like I’m hunching against a hard rain.)

Anyway, I felt a twinge of guilt as I sent little G into class, as I didn’t tell her about the ruler and how ballet typically scars for life every child who takes it. I sat on the bench outside and waited. I amused myself by learning how to delete text messages on the phone I’ve had for 18 months, since I keep getting reminders saying the memory is full and I can’t receive any more. Then I heard the music from “The Little Mermaid” begin to play, so I dashed to the 2′x2′ observation window and elbowed my way to the front so I could see what was going on. And, I am not kidding, it appeared those girls were having fun. Since when is ballet supposed to be fun? Are they learning anything? Where’s the Tchyscofsky and the ruler? What about the condescending teacher who’s bitter she’s stuck teaching kids instead of realizing her dream of playing Clara in The Nutcracker – where’s that bitch? All I could see were happy little girls dancing to princess tunes.

I was soon distracted by the mother next to me, who was taking pictures through the window. “Awww, dere my baby. Wook at the wittle baby. She’s so cuti-wootie!” she said as if she were talking to a newborn and not speaking to grown women about her 4-year-old. I hope my facial expression didn’t convey my horror when I told her that yes, her daughter was indeed “cutie-wootie.” I lost a lot of respect for myself in that moment, and went back to deleting text messages. (Note to self: next week, bring a book. Preferably one with earphones.)

G came out after an hour, happy as a clam. She said the teacher gave them each princess names, and she got to be Sleeping Beauty! She had a hand stamp and sticker to prove it. Is this how ballet goes these days? What happened to the torture we all endured? Are they handing out stickers at the “Swan Lake” rehearsals? Does Mikhail Baryshnikov have hand stamps?? Or is this some kind of cutie-wootie modern ballet?