Our 3 year-old has started on her path to grace, strength and agility by taking her first dance class.
She's got the requisite uniform. Leotard with tutu, tights, the proper hair restraining devices, and of course, the ballet slippers.
We tell her it's a ballet class, even though it's more of a movement for 3-year old's type of lesson.. Yet my ultra-aware daughter tells me everyday after class that, "they forgot to let us dance in class again, today." She remains ever hopeful that one day the teacher will get to some grand plies, pas de deuxs and pirouettes instead of telling them to act like an amoeba and crawl around the floor.
The two most difficult pre-class tasks are getting her into her tights (how in the world do women tolerate panty hose?), and tying the laces on her ballet shoes.
Yep, gentlemen. Ballet shoes have laces.
In fact, that's the title of book I'm going to someday scribe that details the sideways world of being a Stay-at-Home Dad.
Anyhow, I've since learned that the tiny laces of my daughter's ballet shoes and the knockwurst fingers on my average-sized man hands are not meant for anything other than a casual impersonal acquaintanceship.
Hard to visualize. Easier to watch...and giggle...and sympathyze. Click here.