Grace starts a community ballet class tomorrow.
As I tucked her in for bed tonight, she adjusted her pillow and exclaimed, "Mom, I am really so so excited for ballet."
She grinned. A grin that could have single-handedly ended the Cold War. She looked at the ceiling and sighed, "I wonder will there be a recital."
It wasn't really a question she expected me to answer because her head snapped back to face me and she earnestly inquired, "Could you please help me with my tights tomorrow? They are *fragile* and I don't want to *rip* them."
I assured her I would, and her gaze wistfully returned to the ceiling.
At this point, Claire, who had just been reminded of the tumbling class she would begin this week, started attempting somersaults on the bed. She plowed into Grace who hardly noticed.
I kissed them both, turned off the light, and began to shut the door according to Grace's precise width instructions.
And then Grace softly called, "Mama?"
"You're beautiful," she said.
I had just returned from the gym. I assure you, I looked like a sweaty Richard Simmons.
Apparently her joy has made everything lovely.
I kissed her again. I squished them both and told them how happy they make me. And then I left, wondering.
I'm not sure I can recall the last time I was awestruck. Or the last time I even expressed excitement.
Maybe that's why the world seems slightly less lovely these days.
Anybody know where I can get me some awe? And let me spare you a suggestion: I won't be enrolling in ballet.