Friday, my kids and I will attend a much aniticipated performance of The Nutcracker. My daughter and I keep nudging each other and counting down the days. I’m listening to the music and considering options of different “learning activities” to make the most of this fabulous cultural opportunity. It will be my first time ever (and obviously the kids first as well) live ballet.
The boys don’t quite share my Christmas spirit. I tried to put a spin on the experience that my oldest son could relate to. He’s currently writing his own fantasy novel and plans to make a career out of writing.
“Just think,” I told him perkily, “Someday when you’re writing a story, and you need to make your main character suffer, you’ll be able to accurately describe his misery being forced to sit at a ballet performance with his mom!”
“No, Mom,’ he answered in that deep, serious man voice he likes to affect when feeling much more grown up than 15, “I’m not that evil. There are some levels of suffering -throwing them into a pit of snakes is one thing, but ballet is worse.”
Sigh. At least I know he has standards.