Dance Mom.

I am no longer a stranger to stage makeup or fluffing tutus.  I can construct sprayed-stiff buns on the tops of my daughters' heads in minutes, and Rudy's head is shaped like a lightbulb, so that is saying something.  I can also tie cleats, shape steaming-hot mouth guards, and adjust cage goggles over ponytails, but those skills are less necessary in my household right now.  Eventually.  Right?

Marley performed in her fourth springtime dance recital last weekend [her first, her second, and her third here], and Rudy hit the stage for her second.  I laughed while Rudy thrust her teddy bear prop from side to side and above her head while casually tapping, I smiled while she twirled and tiptoed in her little ballet shoes, and then later, when Marley danced her ballet number, I cried.  That's what I do.  She is so precise and so proud: I can't take it.  Her tap routine was sweet, her jazz was cute and sassy, but when that little pipsqueak stretches her arms and points her toes, when she is graceful and deliberate and swelling music plays, I am a weepy disaster.