i’ve mentioned before that i took ballet for many, many years. my sister and i were stuffed into leotards and tutus (that we wore under our porsche hoodies…courtesy of my dad) (even during those horrible adolescent pudgy years) and sent off to dance in our ballet school that was conveniently situated in the basement of a bowling alley.
(a picture on Monday. i promise. but…no laughing)
there were many, many times that i wanted to quit. when i had to miss parties. or when it got too hard. or when i didn’t get the parts i wanted in the shows (there are only so many times you can play a mouse in the Nutcracker…). or when i got too calloused. or when i had to ICE my feet. or when they wouldn’t let me wear underwear (i know…the irony, eh?)
and my mom always gave me the same answer.
“when you are a mom, you will understand”
and now i do. i REALLY do.
prima #1, the tiny dancer version (hold me closer):
(why yes, Virginia, that IS the souvenir i brought home from blogher!! see?? it got put to good use. because have you ever tried to buy a black tshirt for a three year old? there’s nothing but pink and purple as far as the eye can see. Where’s an American Apparel when i need one Metalia!?!)
(also? the pants. i guess she doesn’t wear a size 4. i frantically sent the husband out because all of her size 2s from last winter are capris on her now. why didn’t i ask for size 3, you ask??)
prima #2, the 7-9 hip hopper:
front and center, my daughter.
dancing to Timbaland, no less.
and, the mama. the mama who understands WHY
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