Which I also did today, but after losing the world championship Wii Bowling tournament 3-1 this afternoon, I went back and did a little writing. Prompt writing, but it does count as writing.
January 20--Edgar Degas, The Dancing Class. Lily walked from the car into the old office building on the edge of downtown. Over her shoulder hung a tattered pink bag appliqued with black ballet slippers and a white net tutu. There used to be rhinestones scattered over and around but through its years of faithful service they have been picked off or pried out or fallen off from sheer fatigue. Not from over-laundering, God no. I would be surprised if I've been able to get it away from her ten times in the last ten years. It started just after her third birthday, this quest. I had taken her to see The Nutcracker put on by a local dance troop for the holidays and she was transfixed, especially by the smallest mice. "Mumma, I can dance too," she said on the way home. And dance she did, wearing a swimsuit and tying one of Michael's shirts around her middle for a skirt. Any music, any time, any place our little ballerina was off and dancing. She and Michael's mother took a trip to Goodwill and came back with an armload of tulle and sequins and spandex and that pink ballet bag. They had even found tiny ballet slippers that Grandma sewed ribbons onto for her. Lily was in heaven. I signed her up for classes through the Park and Recreation Department but even that young she complained that they weren't "real ballet classes." So she started at Madame Sofia's on Saturday mornings just before her fourth birthday. In the past ten years I have probably spent at least three of them driving her to classes or rehearsals and waiting to drive her home. I went back to knitting to make use of the time. I've made a lot of leg warmers in all those years.
Good luck to our new president. Now let's see if he can deliver on all that speechifying.
--Barbara
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