Freud's Field Day / Eve Could Have Danced All Night

Frankly, we've been slogging our way through Eve's 9 AM dance classes since last fall mostly so Eve and I could have yapping time with friends.  We yawned our way through the doors about ten after nine each week, my hair in seventeen different directions, dragging Peter and Marie and a trail of cereal crumbs behind me and Eve making her entrance, looking fabulously coiffed and tu-tued. 

(When I have forty-five minutes to get all of us ready, fifteen minutes goes to rousing Peter out of his comatose slumber and wrestling his writhing, half-asleep limbs into layers of clothing on top of his filthy Buzz Lightyear shirt,  twenty-two minutes is dedicated to unforseen bowel explosions [Peter and Marie's, not mine, silly!] and six minutes goes towards stuffing Eve into spandex and forming her up-do complete with a daisy or two. . . If you're as dazzlingly clever [kindred spirits will know the source from which I plagiarized that gem!] in mathematics and the control over time and space as I am, then you can calculate exactly how much time I have left to hop into some stretch pants and cram my locks into a stunningly stylish messy bun!)

 I figured that the approximate cost of 6 bucks a lesson was worth it if Eve and I could have some girl-time with our Allred buddies.  The dance lessons themselves were more an exercise in  play-time than they were in actual dance moves, but I did look forward to the Spring recital because of the extreme cuteness factor.  

(Yes, my dears, I am on the fourth paragraph and haven't even gotten to my point!  Nana, nana, boo-boo.  I don't care!  I spent a zillion hours grading papers over the holiday week-end and I'm going to waste as many words as I feel like!)

Since Eve in her hot-rollers is so charmingly reminiscent of Edith Bunker, we actually have more photo-ops of her modeling the curlers than we do of her dancing.  I asked her to make funny faces, which was adorable until two minutes later when the tears and face-pulling became real (I had stopped taking pictures by then).  

As we were heading out the door, Eve launched into her potty dance (which definitely wasn't part of her recital repertoire!) and I helped her out of her costume.  Usually I give her potty privacy, but since I was trying to rush her through the process, I happened to be in the bathroom with her.  She was crouched above the commode, leaving about three or four inches between her little derriere and the seat. 

 She looked up at me with a beaming smile and said proudly, "I'm practicing, Mom!"  

I was confused.  "Practicing for what, Eve?"  

"I'm practicing so I can pee like my brothers!"  

She figured that if she could get a little more air between her derriere and the seat every day then eventually she'd be able to pee standing up.  I've got a goal-setter, folks!

We had a little lesson on the perks of certain anatomy right then and there.  Girls, we've all been camping and had that same twinge of Freudish envy, so I could hardly blame her for trying.  I just won't take her to the Washington Monument for a few years.  

I did edit her dances for your viewing pleasure, but had to leave in her little Ginger Rogers-esque leg kick when she throws her ball, plus the impersonation of Gidget goes clubbing when her teacher let them freestyle (And btw. . . I should have gotten some freestyle of my own when I had to shell out the money for sixteen full measures of improv between her two dances!  [I paid for choreography, darn it!  {She was one of the only dancers who actually did some freestyle karate/dance moves in her second dance while the dragon went by.}]).  

 (Yes, I loves me some correct parenthetical punctuation.  I didn't get an advanced degree for nothin'!)

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