When Kids' aspirations Attack
My daughter has been taking dance classes since she was three and loves it. This weekend, she was practicing her steps in front of me when, after an impressive leap that caused me to be thankful that she had not inherited my coordination, she turned to me and asked, "Dad, if I'm going to be really good dancer, you need to buy me a pole that I can practice on."
Of course, my mouth went dry, my hands started shaking, my blood pressure shot up to heights that a double dosage of Zetia could not bring down and I was on the verge of going into irreversible cardiac arrest when I shot back, "WHAT?!?! WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU NEED A POLE TO DANCE ON?!?!?"
"My dance teacher, Dad. You don't dance on it though. You use it to help you stretch."
It then dawned on me that she was talking about the wooden bar horizontally mounted on the wall at dance studios, not the metal vertical variety that usually serves as the centerpiece of the stage at the Canadian ballet. For a second there, I thought that the dancing tuition I was shelling out was actually a down payment on her vocational training for a carreer that pays primarily in $1 bills. I haven't been that rattled since she tarted up her little brother in a pink tutu and eye shadow and then sent him in to wake me up one Saturday morning.