Last night the little angel had a summer dance recital at her new ballet school. I let her watch the older girls between her performances even though the other little girls went downstairs. She was quiet, and she wanted to see the older girls so bad she was twitching.
Her eyes shone with that envy and desire I know so well. She wanted to be better before she was ready, before she'd put in the time. She wanted to hold up legs with undeveloped muscles, to dance on toes not formed enough for toe shoes.
At one point she leaned in, her hair not falling in my face as it usually does, tied back neatly in the way of the ballerinas.
"Mommy," she said. "Will I ever be a big ballerina like that?"
I didn't know the answer to that question. Will she stay with it? Will her flat feet bring her down? Will she be good at it?
So I told her what I've learned in 35 years. "Baby," I said, "it depends on whether you'll think it's worth the effort."
