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On Saturdays Rachel goes to "pre-ballet" class. I'm not quite sure what "pre-ballet" means, but Rachel seems to enjoy it so we keep taking her.
Today when I was rounding the corner to pick her up, I heard her teacher say, "This is Rachel. She's from my last dance class, but we're waiting on her mommy to pick her up."
Crap.
"Wait, I'm early!" I looked at my watch and sure enough it was 11:29, a whole minute early.
The red-headed, freckle-faced, too-cute teacher who spends her day jumping up and down with little kids, exerting an energy I haven't felt in at least three years was totally chill, bless her. "Oh, it's okay! We're over at 11:20, not 11:30. I know it's an oddly-timed class, and parents forget that a lot." She kept talking, telling me what a joy Rachel is, and how it truly didn't matter, and all the while Rachel is chattering away while putting on her shoes.
"My mommy didn't come get me. Why, Mommy, didn't you get me? I was here for a long, long time and you still didn't get me. This is the next class not my class and all my friends left and these aren't my friends I know. Why didn't you get me?" Plunks tiara on her head and relishes the moment.
And this only two hours after Rachel asks the perpetual teenaged question ten years too early: "Why isn't there any food in this house?"
Argh. We talk, she's fine, and we head for the 12-minute walk down one flight of steps. There are cute 3- and 4-year-old girls in ballerina clothes running around everywhere, and Rachel sees one she knows.
"That's my best friend! Her name is Clarissa.Unicorn's mama's name is Clarissa."
"I thought Unicorn's mom's name is Jamie?"
"No, it's Clarissa. She's my best friend." Spies another leotard-clad girl. "She's my best friend, too!"
"Wow, Rachel. You have a lot of best friends!"
And now she's in the groove. Anyone under 4'5 is her best friend. We walk down the steps, through the lobby, halfway down the handicap ramp. She has pronounced, loudly, each 4'5-or-less person we've encountered along the way as her best friend. Some parents smile, others look at us like we're nuts, and the rest, who I just don't understand, remain stony-faced, like they're speed-walking in downtown New York.
On the elevator with another little girl: "She's my best friend!"
Two steps off the elevator, forlornly: "I really miss her."
In the car: "Rachel, can mommy be your best friend?" (I know, I'm pathetic.)
Rachel, thinking. "Ummm.... no. Reilly is my best friend. But those other kids can't be my best friend because they don't go to my class but everyone else is my best friend and why didn't you come get me and left me there for a longlong time?"
Thankfully she moves on from best friends, not best friends, and how I screwed up. She segues with three-year-old aplomb into a story. A story about a butterfly that went up her nose, tickled her tummy, then went all the way into her bottom.
I, of course, inquire about the origins of this story. She tells me it happened in dance class. I vow never to be late again.
We get home and Rachel makes me buckle and unbuckle her a dozen times until she's happy with the results. We walk in and Andy asks, "How was dance class, Rachel?" I know exactly what's going to happen next. Rachel, gleefully, yet somehow with sad longing for a good mommy in her voice, "Mommy left me for a long time she didn't get me and then a butterfly went up my nose!"
In other news, Aaron is pretty much a perfect baby, thank goodness, and Collin is enjoying his Florida prep purchases, which I am secretly hoping will result in a new couch for us.
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| Rachel and .... best friends? Not best friends? Who knows. |
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| Eight months old, already standing independently, took half-step yesterday. Calls us all Dadadadadada and loves penguins. Well, one penguin. If you notice, it's curled up against him in this picture. |
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| Awwww..... |
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