The life of a ballet mom is a hard one. There are several challenges, including persuading the aspirant ballerina to attend practices, practices and more practices, all over town at inconvenient hours dangerously close to supper-time; buying costumes, shoes, equipment, finding the same when lost; applying and removing larger quantities of La Pebra's hair gel and stage make-up than should ever be allowed; sewing costumes or sewing decorations on the same, etc etc etc. I do it because, in essence, dance is a glorious and archetypal form of self-expression; and because ballet is an infinitely plastic version of art while retaining strict disciplinary and technical rules. It's similar to writing in that way; there are an infinite number of moves and moods provided one keeps to the basic rules. Within ballet, a dancer can look like a 1920s swinger; an animal of any kind; or a member of any ethnicity. I've seen Irish dances (move over, Michael Flatley!); Russian roulette-type routines; Roman wives of senators and soldiers bewailing the loss of their beloveds; and even bewigged gentlemen reading. I don't find this kind of variety in modern dance or in any other ethnic form, though I stand to be corrected. The lesson I learned today, though, was that affirmation, reassurance and encouragement are not limited. They should be applied liberally. Most of us, I gather, are insecure; and most of us can do with nonstop affirmation and praise. I tried it ... and it worked.
