THAT girl

Last weekend, there was an open house at a local dance school. The only dance school in the area with classes for 2 1/2 year old children. The dance school at which I hope to enroll Nan for the fall. I decided it might be fun to check the place out before the lessons start in the fall, so I packed up the car and we headed out. The drive was uneventful, and she was so excited at the prospect of visiting the dance school. We found the building with no trouble, and as I approached the school, I heard pandemonium. We walked into a cram-jammed waiting area, and and even crazier studio area. It wasn't so much an open house as an opportunity to buy all the equipment necessary for class-- ballet shoes, tap shoes, leotard, tights, skirt, etc. We got into line to start the rotation around the room. I let Nan run around for a little while, until I started to approach the shoe station. I called her name, expecting her to join me-- no such luck. I smiled apologetically at the family behind me, and ran to grab my wayward kid. She was not thrilled to join me, to put it mildly. She threw an unholy tantrum--- picture pea soup pouring from her face. That kind of tantrum. I picked her up and hissed threats into her ear, but I stayed in line. As she sobbed. And yelled, "I DOWN RIGHT NOW!!" I felt the death ray glares of other parents, and I could practically hear them thinking, "Hope that kid isn't in MY kid's class!" As we approached the shoes, a girl indicated I should seat Nan on a bench so we could fit her for ballet shoes. My daughter screeched as if we were tearing out her toenails, and clung to my neck. Sighing, I squatted as well as I could to allow the poor dance school girl to reach my kid's feet. She quickly fitted the ballet shoes, and moved on to tap shoes. Tap shoes. I was convinced Nan would be thrilled-- she's been calling her dress-up mary janes 'tap shoes' for months now, and she's constantly staging shows on the linoleum in our entryway. But no-- the tap shoes were greeted with the same wails of displeasure as the ballet shoes. Fed up at this point, I dragged her to the leotard station, picked up tights and a frilly skirt, and joined the mile-long queue to pay. I was steeling myself for the battle ahead, and casting about for the proper mix of threat/bribery to make her keep it together while we waited. She saw some little girls sitting on the couch looking at books, and asked if she could join them. I agreed, and was pleasantly surprised that she managed to stay quiet and still for the next thirty minutes. $85 and 40 minutes later, we were heading back to the car. Thank god. As I loaded her into the car, she smiled widely and begged me to put her new ballet shoes on her feet. Arrrgggghhhh. Next time? We are sooo taking Daddy with us. I refuse to suffer alone again.