Yeah. That was lesson one. Lessons two and three weren't quite as productive. She asked me to leave her for lesson two and did a great job. For ten whole minutes. Then she laid on the floor and refused to participate.
For lesson three, I decided that having me there would make a difference. And it did, for 20 out of the 45 minutes we were there. Under my gaze (which alternated between The Look and exaggerated encouragement), she tip toed and chassed and butterfly flapped like a reluctant pro.
But for the other 25 minutes, she lolled on her belly, played pretend on the ballet barre, stood with her arms crossed, ran back and forth across the studio, refused to step on anything but green blocks, had 510 drinks from the water fountain, poked at the other girls, and picked her nose. And if either her instructor or I came near her, she'd run and screech.
It was a pretty phenomenal display of immaturity. Like, text book.
And so our days of ballet are finished for now. Just like when I paid $50 for Javi to have swim lessons at age 3 and he shivered and cried on the side of the pool, Bella just isn't ready to jump into the world of ballet. And I'd much rather sit at home in my pajamas instead of sweating it out in the dance studio or listening to the exorcism in the back seat.
But tell me why after she stopped crying and screaming "my ballet class!" in the car on the way home, she giggled and said, "How 'bout we do some shemnatsticks now?"
And I'm actually considering it.
***This post is part of the 30-minute blog challenge.***