On Wednesdays We Wear Pink

There’s always one isn’t there? At every school concert: you can spot them a mile away – bright red and trying to crawl under the already-too-small-chair: they are the parents of THAT child.

I know you’ll never believe it, but I am that one parent trying to crawl under a kiddie’s seat and my child is that child.

It all started when I committed the cardinal sin of parenting. I tried to enroll my child in an activity that I had loved as a child. I don’t remember much of my time in Pre-primary, but I do remember the trauma of the beanbag (a story for another day) and the excitement of putting on my bright orange leotard (it was the 80s) and tutu and going to ballet classes. Although my ballet report focused (rather rudely I thought) on my enthusiasm and neat dress rather than any ability to dance, I loved my ballet lessons – the dressing up, the music, the “stories” we danced out. What better activity for an energetic little girl than the beauty of ballet class?

Now, I’m not saying Slytherin Baby didn’t like ballet. She liked the idea of her beautiful pink leotard and tutu (no more neon orange for ballet dancers); she enjoyed being with her friends; she had a very nice teacher; she had a favourite song and dance.

It’s just that ballet is a traditionally disciplined artform, and, well, let’s just say Slytherin Baby is not a traditionally disciplined artform.  

The coup-de-grace was a year end “showcase” of the final ballet lesson of the term for the ballet parents. I, like every other parent there, melted a little at the sight of all the little ballerinas in their leotards, tutus, and special hairbands, sitting on their assigned mats. The cuteness overload of that scene was not marred in the slightest by the fidgeting of the little dancers as their teacher stood up to address the parents. As this beautiful “real” ballerina took us through the curriculum she had been working on, I kept an eye on the adorable miniature ballet dancers behind her. There was the little one who sat ramrod straight and focused on her teacher; the one who was pulling at her headband in an effort to get it to sit straight; the one who was sitting close to the teacher and eyeing the crowd of adults crouched on their kiddy chairs with a mixture of bemusement and suspicion; and then there was the little one who kept sliding her eyes over to the child next to her, and every time she slid her eyes, she slid her mat a little closer too. This, along with the mention of a curriculum, was making me very nervous. I think I would have enjoyed the little scene of the child trying to sneak up to her friend a lot more if the child in question hadn’t been mine.  

Soon she was close enough. Poke. The friend pushed her hand away. Poke. Push hand away. The Ballet Teacher started instructing her little flock. Hands went up with various levels of proficiency. Poke. Push hand away. Hands come down to different levels. Poke. And finally The Friend had enough and pushed the whole child away from her. Cue shriek of, “The Ballet Teacher! The Friend pushed me!”

In a movement so practiced I shudder to think how often this has happened, The Ballet Teacher moved the mat and Slytherin Baby away from the other child without missing a beat in her instruction.

Finally The Ballet Teacher moved onto pointing and flexing their toes and I felt a rush of relief. This, I knew, was something my child could do. She referred to this as having “naught toes” and “good toes”; The Ballet Teacher referred to this using the fancy French Ballet terms, which I didn’t bother to remember. Something told me remembering Ballet terms would not be all that important in my future.

The Little Ballerina who sat ramrod straight was pointing and flexing her toes with great concentration; the girl with the skew headband was pointing and flexing her toes intermittently while examining the bookshelf behind her; the little poppet had clearly decided to err on the side of suspicion and was huddle close to The Ballet Teacher, toes moving, eyes fixed fearfully on the crowd staring at her; and Slytherin Baby was cradling her foot like a baby.

Next came some other fancy French term that I think means bend your legs elegantly and rise like a cloud ascending to heaven. At least that is what I inferred from The Ballet Teacher’s demonstration and The Little Ballerina’s imitation. Some of the bending looked a little bit more like a sumo wrestler’s starting stance, or a preparation for weightlifting, but that did not in any way diminish the beauty of the demonstration from the little flock. My child was of course not bending or straightening, she was licking the mirror behind her.

Then it was time to do some dancing. I have a distinctive memory of being an “enthusiastic dancer” acting out the dance that required us to “climb gracefully over the fence” and go into the farmer’s orchid. Pick the apples carefully and put them into the basket”. Today the dance started with “Pick up your baby carefully”, and I smiled. Slytherin Baby loves to play with her baby dolls. At last, some part of Ballet that would go smoothly.

Slytherin Baby grabbed her pretend baby with considerable force. And instead of running in a circle, gently cradling her baby like the rest of the Ballet Troup, she ran right at The Friend, shoved her arms at her friend, and yelled “My baby farted in your face!”

I can’t really tell you what happened after that point, because of the roar of the parents’ laughter (which had been a muffled sniggering at the start of the lesson) and the fact that I was bent so far over in my chair I was practically pressing my face into the carpet. I heard more than one snort from the audience before the I could summon the courage to look up again, so I presume Slytherin Baby was enjoying herself.

I managed to watch through my fingers as Slytherin Baby (now being firmly held by the hand by The Ballet Teacher) flounced half-heartedly to “Let it Go” and then started to jam with unbridled enthusiasm to the “Dum-dum” song (otherwise known as “I like to move it”).

So in the end I learned a lot that day. I learned that, just like her mom, Slytherin Baby won’t be a Ballet dancer (albeit for slightly different reasons); I learned that you don’t have to be the most talented performer to be the crowd favourite (to this day I have parents remind me how much they enjoyed Slytherin Baby’s performance); I also learned that once again I am very proud of Slytherin Baby.

She might not have been the most talented, studious, or even “enthusiastic” dancer; but when the ballerinas ran in a circle, lifting and lowering their arms with varying degrees of grace, Slytherin Baby noticed the Little Poppet, pressed firmly against the toy cupboard, terrified eyes glued to the audience as if they might attack if she blinked. Every time Slytherin Baby ran past, she slowed downed and reached out a hand to Little Poppet in an effort to get her friend to join in.

Slytherin Baby might be a foot-cradling-mirror-licking-my-baby-farted-in-your-face dancer, but at least she’s a kind foot-cradling-mirror-licking-my-baby-farted-in-your-face dancer.