Little Miss and the Ballet

Last year I took ten-year-old Little Miss to the ballet for the first time (for both of us).  The production was Swan Lake, which Lil' was familiar with thanks to Barbie, and so, in our finest, we joined up with friends to be educated in the fine art of dance.

I did wonder what she would think of the storyline - certainly Barbie gives the movie a happy ending.  Would she be upset? Would she hate it all? Would she notice how snug the prince's tights are? Do I want to have a conversation about men's snug tights?

But as a matter of fact, Little Miss was quite in awe of the whole event.  Where we sat, the look of the theatre, the lighting, how the scenes changed, and, of course, the costumes.  She only once mentioned how there were no words spoken.  I watched her more than I watched the show - her beautiful face lit up from the stage lights, her mouth hanging open, her body leaning forward to get a better look. I hadn't seen her this enthralled since we went to Medieval Times in Toronto a few years back. 

SO not the same caliber.

And when the afformentioned men's tights came up... all she said was, "I hope they get paid a lot because those outfits don't fit! It's right up his butt!"

And of course, I chickened out and said nothing. Phew. Bullet dodged.

It was during the second act that the hiccupping started.  Really loud hiccupping. Heaven knows what she did but Lil' had them.  She held her breath, plugged her nose, tried everything she could but they kept coming.  Beautiful ballet dancers are gracefully twirling across the stage in silence and the two of us are trying not to giggle as loud chirrups are projected throughout the quiet auditorium.  Good grief.  It was like a bad Mr. Bean movie.

Eventually the ballet ended.  The prince is dead, and the princess cries, lying over him.  The curtains close and I look at her.  "No, it's not done yet. He's not dead," she says, looking like she has a big surprise. "You'll see."

"No, honey," I say, gently, "That's all. That's how the adult version ends. He gave his life for hers." (Remind me to throw out the Barbie version when I get home - those liars). 

She tried one more time to assure me it wasn't over, but eventually realized the curtain would not be reopening.  It was a sad moment of stepping out of the world of Disney into a place of unfairness, grief, and deep meaning in art rather than happy endings.  And she elegantly survived.

If only real-life events would be continue to be smooth transitions for her as well.  I hugged her tight and we went out for food.

We head to another ballet this Christmas, and hopefully, just as excellent an evening.  And, much to the chagrin of those on stage, just as many hiccups.

The Pile

It is mid-morning, the kids are at their grandparent's place, I will be heading out to 'the office job', and amidst the quiet the turtle tank filter is swishing away, taunting my bladder.

It is rare that the house is so still.  Even hear the hum of the refrigerator can be heard from the next room.  Is it supposed to be that loud? I have never noticed before.  There is nothing in it anyway, short of freezer-burned shrimp I bought when Little Miss was studying Newfoundland last year.

I am attempting to deep clean the house while the kids are away. I read recently in a self-help site (as they are SO helpful) that if you pile all the clutter on the bed (or in the middle of the room, as I have done) then it is easier to deep clean around it.

But what to do with this pile? I can't remember that part of the article.  Will I be too tired to go through it at the end of all of this - or will I turn it into a useful pile, throwing a blue sheet over it and calling it a coffee table?

Is this how hoarders get started.  Perhaps they pile things on the bed in an attempt to clean things up, get tired, and then simply push it to one side of the bed in order to sleep.  Of course, Mr. Man would then be replaced by a mound of mismatched socks, books on Chaucer and Mary Poppins, and endless recharging cords.  Needless to say, Mr. keeps me from becoming a hoarder.  Chaucer does not keep my feet warm.

And here's the rub: after all of this pondering it is now time to leave for work.  Such is my life - I read and research how to do something, and then never do it.  Mr. says he is the 'doer'. Perhaps I will toss the pile into the mudroom...