Yesterday morning, Toddler had a friend’s ballet birthday party. Now Toddler, my girl who swoons over Stegosauruses, has had zero exposure to dance, but we stole her little sister’s white tutu and cobbled together an impressive party getup and were on our way. Outside, we stopped to look at our dead and discarded Christmas tree. Daddy had just brought it to the street. I saw it there, sacked out on the sidewalk next to the piles of waiting trash, and I said something I perhaps shouldn’t have.

I said, “Babe, Say goodbye to our tree.”

I said this because I was sad. Sad that another holiday season has passed. Sad that time travels so fast. Sad that our tree, once robust and standing, full of lights and life, was there, dead on the street, its limbs butchered, its needles scattered. But my sweet girl took one look and waved and pulled me along. To the next thing.

At the party, she left my side and found her groove among the other little girls. She sat in that circle, as a real ballerina talked and taught, eyes wide, eager to learn. And when it was her turn, she stood in her spot and turned around like the pretty big ballerina told her to. My tiny novice even managed to nail first position, putting her heels together, opening her feet like a book. And I sat back, on a comfy couch, watching. I had been anxious on her behalf, worried that she would be self-conscious in that sea of pink doing something new. And I smiled as I saw her smile and sway.

At lunchtime, she ate plate after plate of popcorn. I told her to eat one piece at a time because I worried she would choke. And she humored me, slowing down. And then she devoured the pink frosting off a cupcake. And then we left and hopped in a taxi to meet Daddy and Baby at yet another birthday party across town. In the cab, she started to feel a little carsick, so I did what I could to distract her.

In her ear, I whispered something: “You are my popcorn ballerina and I love you.”

And she laughed. Oh, did she laugh. She laughed as if she had never heard something so hilarious. And maybe she hasn’t. And then I asked her something, as my fingers fiddled with the white gauze of that tiny skirt: “Would you ever want to take a ballet class?”

“Yes!” she proclaimed.

After two parties and too much sugar, we headed home. I let her walk ahead of me. Because I was tired and a bit breathless and because I wanted to see her. From a small distance. And there she was. My big girl. My popcorn ballerina. Clutching a birthday balloon. And I had a brief moment to think. About the day. About the melting snow and shifting season and sleeping tree. About ends and beginnings and how they arrive together, quietly and compellingly, twisted and tied in ways we would never imagine. On one day, one little day in a wide winter, we said goodbye to a tree and hello to ballet.

And then she began to run. And the distance increased. I picked up my pace a bit, holding my belly, smiling, watching the exquisite twirly blur up ahead. A sage stranger passed me and said something that I will not forget.

“She’s way ahead of you, Momma.” And I didn’t say it back, I didn’t say it aloud, but I thought it.

Yes. Yes, she is.

___________________________________________

Do you believe that there are beginnings and ends hidden in each and every day? Do you have a hard time with the end of things? Do you find the tossing of the tree depressing or liberating? Are you ever amazed at your kids’ lack of fear and anxiety about trying new things?

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