Monday, 26 January 2015

Ballet



I'm not sure if it's down to the book "Dogs don't ballet", but the McBaby has expressed a recent interest in the world of dance.

I emailed a dance school that includes boys. No reply.

I tried another, entitling my email: "ballet lessons for a three-year-old boy".

"How old is your son?" came back the reply, along with an invitation to join a class in January at 3.30pm. But where? And what should he wear?

Finally eliciting the info, we got to the venue early and in a bid to keep the McBaby clean, I carried him over a patch of mud in a playground to guarantee safe passage to the swings. But I then slipped. The pair of us came crashing to the ground; he hurt his forehead and I banged my head so hard I thought it was 1984. More importantly though we were now covered, and I mean covered, in mud which meant that the other people in the class quite literally turned their noses up at us and ignored us.

The class contained nine girls. Not just girls, but girly girls. Head to toe in pink. Even the two who hadn't done ballet before were immaculately turned out in brand new ballet shoes, tutus and pink cardigans. I didn't blame the muddy McBaby for sitting out.

The half hours felt like two hours. Lot of tiptoeing, waving fairy dust and holding of wands later and we decide to take him home. He has a tantrum, eliciting the first looks in our direction.

I notice that Dogs don't do ballet is not on the list of books he asks me to read that night....


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