I want to dance! (aka It's so beautiful, I want to cry)

So, my mother, SIL and I took my 7-year-old and my 6-year-old niece to see the Nutcracker on Saturday. It had been a long-standing tradition (read:  we went more than once) of ours to see the Nutcracker ballet growing up.  Back when this city had a ballet company.  And people actually ventured downtown for something other than work.  You know, the good ol' days.

Over the years, traveling ballet companies would make their trip to our desolate city to perform the Nutcracker and we'd (sometimes) go.  I had my first amaretto sour at the Nutcracker. 

Ah, the good ol' days.

Of course, I couldn't possibly introduce my 7-year-old to the wonders of amaretto sours.  We'll save that for next year (kidding!  Don't call Child Services on me.).  But, he had learned the story of the Nutcracker in music class (I need to write that woman a thank you note), so when I told him they were coming to town, he said he'd go (read:  he said, "I'll go if you want me to.") 

Such a good kid.

So, we went.  I've seen several performances in my life.  Some beautiful, some a little creepy (who is that Doppleheimer guy anyway?  Oh.  Drosselmeyer.  Whatever.  Sometimes, he's been a little creepy, wringing his hands maniacally.).  This one was good.  No creepies.  The stage was decorated beautifully, the costumes were lovely, the dancing was wonderful.  Made you want to be a ballerina.

(I took ballet as a child.  One season.  During our performance at the end of the season, I got horrible stage fright and refused to leave the ballet bar.  I was sure all the parents were looking at me.  Hey, I was FOUR.  What did I know?  Alas, my dream of becoming a ballet dancer was over.)

Instead, I watch.  And acknowledge the amazing things those dancers can do.  Nowadays, instead of just appreciating the beauty, I admire the incredible stamina they must have.  I mean, for me to get into some of those positions would take a lot of yoga.  Or alcohol.  And I'd most likely really really hate myself in the morning.

I wanted my 7-year-old to appreciate the beauty.  But, he's a boy and the silly bear (who must've only been in the matinee version) was what he enjoyed.  In the middle of the second act, he leaned over and whispered:

"Mommy, I'm kind of bored."

Oh well.  I guess my dream of him becoming the next Mikhail Baryshnikov is over.  Which I'm sure my husband is grateful for since ballet is, as my sister put it, g-a-y.

Notthatthere'santhingwrongwiththatofcourse.