Ok, well technically I did not drop out, but rather allowed my daughter to drop out. For months now we had been dragging ourselves to a 4:30 dance class every Tuesday afternoon. Logstically speaking - this was never a small feat. Sarah did not get home on the bus until sometimes close to 4:15 and we had to change her clothes, shove a food item in her mouth and hit the door. Of course, we did all this with a reluctant toddler in tow as well. I won't get into the struggle it was to get his gear on, smash his feet into shoes as he was striving to get away from me, and somehow corral him near the garage door long enough to open the car door and plop him inside. The tantrums could be heard for miles.
Never mind the fit he had to throw once again when we got to the studio and only she was allowed into the dace room....uhg.
From Dance we immediately shot home, ate some weak representation of a meal (during which Aiden would make it his only goal to coat himself and everyone in his vicinity with whatever it was he was served) and were off the Girl Scouts by 5:45 every other week.
So why did we do this, you ask? Well, Sarah wanted to dance. I wanted her to dance. I had (have) angelic visions of her gracing the stage with such elegance and beauty that any audience would be beside themselves. This was not the case. Sarah has my grand lack of rhythm and talent and the was Hip Hop. It was painful. But alas, she still wanted to participate, so we went. Every Tuesday.
A coule of weeks ago Sarah had a confession of her own. "I don't want to go to dance, Mama." I wanted to scream, "Thank Heavens! Either do I!!!", but I didn't. I contained myself. I had to figure out if this was just a ploy to stay home on this particular 70 degree day, or if she really meant it.
You see, we had a recital coming up in less then four weeks and, of course, had already purchased a very expensive dance costume. If she was not serious there was no going back. Well, needless to say, she was serious. And it is fabulous.
This evening I stand here cooking supper on a Friday night a new woman. I am not exhausted from shuttling my child feverishly around all week. I can breathe. I fully give this credit to the fact that we no longer have dance. It is one less night that I have to fight the battle against time and toddler will. It is one less night that life is rushed by us in a whirlwind of activity.
This does not mean that in a few short weeks we will not be signed up for every program the park district offers, or that this fall Sarah might pursue five of her latest passions while Aiden is enrolled in tumbling (don't tell his Dad) and mini football camp - but that is ok and we will deal with it when it comes. They should have every opportunity. But, for now, I will bask in the glow of this new relaxed week and not think about the days ahead.