Xantherina Ballerina

Four years ago when Xanthe came home from China, one of the first things she did was ride on my hip for the duration of recital week.  Experts said she should be with mom at all times for bonding, so that one relationship would be constant and continual in a world where every detail was suddenly different from anything she had ever known.  The tiny, timid scrap observed the whole process of the recital from the rhythmic comfort of mom's hip, silently watching, her stoic face inscrutable, as I took my classes through staging and led them backstage to dance.  I wonder if the sights and sounds of that week registered in her subconscious as something good or something scary.  At any rate, she lives for her Tuesday dance class with Lisa.  If ballet class is the cherry on top of her week, the recital is one of those giant sundaes made for 20 people, piled high with whipped cream.

The poor girl whipped herself into a frenzy of excitement so intense last night, she was passed out asleep in the backseat of the car by the time we got to dress rehearsal.  As I carried her into the Browning Center in her sparkly pink costume, her hair slicked back into the world's tiniest micro-bun, I thought of the limp, placid baby I carried in four years ago.  This is a different girl.  Her chaperone said that Xanthe insisted on narrating the whole recital.  "This is Lost Penny.  My sister is in this.  This one is going to be the number song.  This is Baobabs.  It's a funny song.  This is Ruby's song.  My song plays the piano."  She knows her stuff!  At 30 pounds, she could probably run the whole show if she could just get everyone to follow her commands.  And if she could stay awake 'til curtain!