So here's a time when something is supposed to happen that opens up an old wound and I'm given a chance to deal with it differently, and there's plenty of chances for an old wound being opened with me back in the hallway after the summer off and Amma having to get used to me being around again.
Star Child is having a difficult time of starting school, it appears. She's in the second week of it and the plan hysterical laughter was for Amma to take her and drop her off in the mornings before going to work and I would then go and pick her up at noon. The only bit that isn't working is that Star Child evidently refuses to let Amma go off to work and insists that she stay. I haven't seen any of this first hand but have no reason to doubt any of it. I know that when I arrive to pick her up she seems perfectly happy and also goes off to school happily each morning.
So yesterday I picked her up as *usual*, we came home, had lunch, I read two stories and she took her nap, again as usual, even if usual has only been five days. An hour and twenty minutes later I then had to do something I really dislike and wake her up to take her off to dance class. (It's the waking her up I dislike, not the dance class.) I've taken her twice before, changing her into her pink costume when we get there and then hanging around the studio a bit with all the other parents/nannies/caregivers until Miss Angela turfs us out and class begins. No problem.
Yesterday we barely made it on time, and all the other parents/nannies/caregivers/ were filing out of the studio promising not to cry while they were outside on their own, a stroke of genius as far as I'm concerned on Miss Angela's part. "Off you go," I say, gently pushing Star Child into the circle of three-year-olds. "'I'll be right outside." The tears start immediately and the little arms go round my neck as SC tries to get into my lap while I'm standing up. I look mutely at Miss Angela as her eyebrows go up, and without saying a word I try to convey that we're having a little difficulty with what I hate to call separation anxiety as I feel like a textbook but I suppose it's the best way to describe it and I'm really really sorry but could I break the rules and stay in the studio for a bit?
"Would it help if I picked her up?" says Miss Angela, and I give my now usual answer to any and all questions: "I don't know." Star Child and I retreat to the sidelines and Miss Angela starts the class, SC now comfortably in my lap as I'm sitting on the floor, arms still tight around my neck, one big tear drop not quite big enough to make it over the mound of her cheek glistening away on her face.
I start to do all the things Miss Angela is having the others do - touch our toes, walk our hands all the way up to our heads, clap hands, go back to toes and next time use a different method to make it back up - squeeze, tickle, go slowly, go quickly - not particularly easy as I'm reaching over SC the limpet to do it all, but slowly, very slowly, she starts to join in.
As we start the slithering on the belly business being crocodiles, though, she changes her mind, but as the class goes on she participates more and more and is absolutely thrilled when the shaky eggs come out and Miss Angela gives her and me (?) matching colors. Off we all go marching around the room shaking our eggs and making noise, and from that point on she joins in completely, as long as I'm doing exactly the same thing next to her, of course. Every now and again I catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and give quiet thanks I managed to lose a couple of pounds over the summer. I'm actually much thinner than Miss Angela but she's definitely lighter on her feet, not that this concerns me in the least. Thinking of my line dancing days in Silver when the transiting north node and Chiron hit my moon in the eleventh, I jump, hop, skip, prance, wave my arms, pretend to take a lick of a giant lollipop, join in whatever that game is where you have to suddenly stop whatever you were doing and freeze when Miss Angela sounds the gong, and realize any trace of self-consciousness I may once have had - and I had a lot - has gone, O joyful day.
Class ends with the children one by one taking turns to jump in imaginary puddles all the way across the room and then dance back to the barre. SC's the last to go as she's still standing very close to me and I'm pretending to be invisible at the end of the row. "Pamela, Pamela do it," she says, and it's my turn for the eyebrows to go up. A bit more unspoken communication between me and Miss Angela and she says, "I'm not going to let Pamela jump in the puddles because this is a class for little girls and she's big, and it's very special that's she's been in the class anyway this week." (Something like that, anyway.)
SC accepts this without a murmur, the door's opened, the little 'uns stream out to their waiting big 'uns and I try to hide behind the door in case any of the other big 'uns get bent out of shape because I've been allowed to stay. The next class (bigger 'uns) is streaming in as SC and I thank Miss Angela for her understanding in allowing me to stay, and she tells me I got a one-off and there are dancing classes for big 'uns I could take, this, I hope, for SC's ears in preparation for next week, although it wouldn't be a bad idea if I want to keep this weight off.
"You're a good sport," she tells me, as SC and I squeeze our way out the door. "You too," I say, thinking this is something I've heard many times before. I suppose that's what I am - a good sport.
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