June 1

It's a big week for my girl, and tonight she headed off to her last dance class.

For 14 academic years now, she's attended Jazz N Taps for weekly lessons. Although she's not a team girl, she's stuck with the rec program, which allowed her to dabble in tap, ballet, modern, and (her probable favorite of late) musical theater. 

As she was preparing the leave this evening, she asked if I was going to take her picture by the front door like I do on first and last days, and I said sure. And to make it a little more special, I ran to the garage and --miraculously-- located and retrieved her first-ever recital costume for the occasion. (And believe me, God's hand was in it because finding things in the garage is no easy feat.) So she smiled and held up that Good Ship Lollipop outfit and my mind's ear could hear her up on stage, belting out the lyrics in her crackly little voice like the little diva she was back then. The memory inspired a moment of intermingled amusement and sadness.

The emotion of the week hasn't really hit me yet, but this last class of hers is meaningful to both of us, I think. I was a dancer when I was growing up; tap was my Main Thing, and I even taught my own classes and choreographed my girls' routines during my senior year of high school. Although I knew I wasn't dance-as-a-career material, I still enjoyed it and I loved my time at that little studio in Damascus.

And I always knew that if I had a little girl someday, I wanted her to take dance just like her mama. And so she did. We even danced together on that stage as part of the Mother/Daughter class for five years, which --my inability to body wave aside-- I'll never forget.

So yes, tonight I am grateful to God for the miracle of those years and for all of the glittery, sequined memories -- hers, mine, and ours.