My kids take dance lessons. Abigail has been going for about 4 years. Aidan just started this year. He's the only boy in a class of girls. They seem to enjoy it and it gets them off the street.
Every year or so the studio puts together a big show. All the different classes perform over two nights. The youngest children usually get big cheers for their cuteness while the older kids get big cheers for their phenomenal dancing ability.
I love watching the show.
And not just because my kids are in it.
You see, I'm a frustrated dancer. I'm envious of the coordination, athleticism, grace and freedom of the dancers.
In my mind, I can do all these awesome moves. I moonwalk like Michael Jackson. I leap like Nureyev. I have the grace of Fred Astaire. Sometimes I break into a spontaneous dance when I'm in the middle of doing something... like cooking dinner or mowing the lawn.
But that's only in my mind.
The reality is that I sometimes bob my head to the beat while listening to the stereo in the car. I probably look like I'm having a seizure.
Anyway, I'm glad the show weekend is over. Aidan stole his routine and Abigail was the cutest jelly fish on stage. I just tapped my foot to the beat and clapped loudly.