When my kids were little, dance class was on the agenda to the extent that I could get them to go.
(My mother was also insistent that I take ballet lessons or, as she reminded me, more than once, "Who made sure you knew how to walk across a room?"...)
One of the more nerve-wracking parts of December was the annual Christmas Recital staged by their school which meant the week leading up was spent in a drafty theatre making sure my son wasn't up to any mischief backstage as his sisters waited patiently to rehearse, theoretically doing their homework in little clusters sitting in the empty rows. Leaving the theatre in the dark, a cold wind often blew up Main Street and we scurried to get in to our car, complaining about its cold interior as we hurried back to our cozy home.
When the actual event rolled around, and the various players assembled with hair neatly tied back and rouged cheeks and lips (and a sparkly costume to boot)- a well of happiness rose up, inspired by the excitement of the audience and the sweet sound of their applause at the end.
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