" On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined."
Today I brought Grant to his dance class. An hour early.
For the THIRD week in a row.
I'm not even pregnant.
His teachers are great. But when we showed up at the wrong class again today, one of the ladies asked me with a steely politeness, "Will you be dropping him off now, or at the correct time?" That's when I had to sheepishly ask (again) what time his class was at? Amazingly, I've managed to write the wrong time, on every calendar, dateplanner and notepaper in the house. Somehow, every week I show up at the wrong time...I think the week before was just a fluke, and that I wasn't paying attention to my highly organized schedule.
After driving around town, stopping by the post office, and listening to bored kids in the back seat for an hour, I tried to take Grant to his class. At the correct time. He was all fun and games until we got to the door. Then he did the cling and squeeze. I detached the little leach. We talked. I walked into the class with him. I paid his costume fee, along with the hefty late fee for not doing so earlier. It was no use. He had his head buried into my thigh the entire time.
We walked out.
After driving around the block, the tears started flowing from the little ballerino in the back seat. "I WEALLY want to go to my dance cwass!"
We talked about being brave, about how I would ALWAYS come back for him, and how much he loves dancing. We circled back to the studio. We got to the door. Happy sounds of giggly girls, music and tap shoes stomping away carried from the room. We open the door. I give him a little push. A small victory starts tingling in my stress-filled shoulder blades. Halfway through, he bolts back to me and starts crying.
We drove home. 2 hours down the drain. Cranky kids all around. My wallet feeling pretty taken advantage of for the costume fee. And me SO angry at my little 3-year-old who can't make up his mind about dance and has suddenly decided he is shy.
On the way home he fell asleep. As I was carrying him to his room, with his little arms wrapped around my neck, and his head wobbling on my shoulders; I soaked it in. I thought about how stupid I was. On so many levels. Feeling dumb about never getting to his class like a normal mother. About missing the costume fee deadline. And, for even caring if he goes to another class. Ever. We can try again next year.
I've spent these past six months, grieving cuddles with our youngest daughter, and learning to love her better than comes naturally, and differently than I knew. God is helping make that easier every day. But, here I am with this little boy in the sunset of babyhood--trying to kick him out the door!
His cuddles are pretty sweet, too, you know.
For now, I'm content with my daily recitals at home.