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Ballet Begins

For the past two years, Cora has stood at
the doorway and watched Maddie take ballet class: first, as a
beginner three-year-old in the pink leotard, and then as a
four-year-old in her lavender leotards. Every week, Cora would
bring her own shoes and give herself a class in the empty studio,
waiting longingly for the day she’d be old enough to take a
real class.

Last Tuesday was the day.

Cora was talking about it for days leading
up to it: “I’m going to take big-girl ballet class! I
will listen to Miss Linda and do whatever she says! I’m going
to wear my pink leotard and do my plies and chasses and turns. I
will be very good.” The night before, she was so excited she
couldn’t get to sleep.

The day of, Cora raced upstairs to get into her leotard and tights.
She begged me to put her hair in a bun and use “big-girl
hairspray” to make it look “real”. We arrived
almost ten minutes early, so eager was she. When it was time for
class, Cora was first in line to go in, and stared adoringly at
Miss Linda’s face.

Which is where she looked for the rest of class. The other
three-year-olds may have run around the room, giggling, falling
down on purpose and cutting up in class, but Cora’s eyes
never left Miss Linda’s, and her hands were firmly planted on
her hips in practice position. My child was infatuated, and soaked
that forty-five minute class up like a sponge. Afterwards, as we
walked to the car, she said, “When’s my next ballet

My child has got it bad for ballet, and I don’t think that
love affair is likely to die any time soon.


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