My review of the second adult workshop has to simmer for a while. I got something from it that seems to be helping A Minor-In-the-Grander-Scheme-of-Things-Yet-Very-Annoying Issue the Omegas have had for quite a while (the Foot Thing), but it's still early days yet, and it's offbeat enough that I don't want to toss it out there until I've got a few more data points to factor into the equation.
So the dotter has now had two ballet lessons.
I found the (insert feminine, high-pitched squeal here) cutest little black leotard with flippy little skirt at Chez Target the day of OmegaDotter's first class. I knew she'd love it. I told her as I was sherpherding her into the bathroom at daycare.
She was skeptical.
I unveiled the cutest black leotard from the shopping bag.
OmegaDotter's eyes widened. The flippy little skirt sealed the deal. The black leotard with the purple and lavender slashes is now in the dustbin of memory (for the nonce).
However, any pictures we take of her in it are never going on this blog. No way. See, with its spaghetti straps and flirtatiousness, it's just too...um...pre-teen looking for me to want a pic of her in it floating around. In short, she looks smashing in it. I mean, really smashing. It's scary.
I drove up to the studio in trepidation. The thought had occurred to both me and Mr. OmegaMom that, while the thought of ballet class might be hunky dory, the reality would be one of those scenes where the child melts into horrified tears at the thought of Leaving Mommy, segueing (sp?) into a total meltdown of the kind that parades through nightmares and wakes parents up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.
Nope. She spent the twenty minutes before class eagerly peering through the one-way glass at the class before her, and when the teacher came out to gather up the pre-schoolers and kindergarteners, she darted in without a second glance.
Which left me with all these ladies.
So--what do you talk about with strange females who are also waiting for their kids to be done with their class?
Let's see: From that first evening, I now know that the west-side Montessori school is totally not geared towards three-year-olds (contrary to popular rosy opinion). I know that to get into Pinecone School (highly desirable), you need to get on the waiting list. I know that the best strategy is to get on the waiting list for at least five schools, so that if someone drops out, you get a spot. I know that the lady who taught immersion Navajo to second and third-graders at one school was reassigned to teach regular eighth grade, so now there's no immersion Navajo, and the lady is Not Happy with her new assignment. I know that gymnastics class is less expensive, but very popular. I know that there's at least one other adoptee in the class, whose mom is currently fostering four children under 18 months old.
At the end of that class, as the dotter was darting out, glowing with happiness at dance class, I ran smack into one of the ladies who has organized a local Families With Children From China playgroup. Seeing the Dotter and me there prompted her to sign up.
The second class social half-hour was spent with the same lady, giving her a rundown on the heritage camp, discussing plans for future meetings, and figuring out ways to boost participation in the email group and come up with ideas for the Moon Festival gathering we're going to hold.
These half-hour social stints are jam-packed, lemme tell you!
The one man who was there, on the other hand, sat and read books, and never acknowledged that other people were there at all. This is a very big commentary on the different styles of men and women.
After the dotter's second class, she demanded to stay to watch the teen dance troupe practicing.
Horses. Ballet. Pink and purple. Social mommies. Good lord.