H is on her third pair of pointe shoes this year. My fingers are near-bleeding from sewing in the elastic and ribbon. The woman who fits H for her shoes reprimands me every time because I don’t make H sew them in herself. But *I* can barely push the needle through the thick elastic–how can I expect her to do it??
I complained, half-jokingly, that H is setting some sort of record for her studio in going through shoes. The saleswoman, a retired ballerina herself, looked at me aghast. “Professional dancers wear out a pair of shoes in about eight hours of use, and in ONE ACT of a performance…” She shook her head slightly at me, as if to wonder how stupid I could be.
Quite stupid, apparently. Here’s more proof (aside from having cultivated in my daughter a taste for the most expensive hobby a young girl might have): On the way home from pre-school on Monday, Little J complained of intense thirst. It had been his day for snack, and so we happened to have a half-gallon of chocolate milk, about a 1/4 full, in his backpack. While I knew chocolate milk–or milk of any kind, really–is no thirst-quencher, I still allowed him to swig milk out of the gallon jug. Luckily he did NOT spill milk in the car, but now he refuses to drink milk out of a cup. He’ll wander into the kitchen randomly during the day. I’ll hear the fridge open and the cap of the milk come off. Then I’ll hear him *thunk* return the jug to the fridge and *whump* shut the fridge door. And then he’ll wander back out of the kitchen, a small milk-trace on his upper lip.
Edited to add: Now he just passed me, walking from the kitchen into the living room, the jug of milk in hand. Great.