Last night was Mum's 69th birthday. We had a glorious California evening of bocce ball, wine and food and it was great fun. (Bocce is definitely the sport of codgers: low, slow and close to the ground seems to be what it is all about.)
The Niece is now a glorious two, the only child in a forest of grown ups. I think she is rather swell, even if she needs to be reintroduced to me every time before warming completely and dragging me everywhere.
We have a new game: jumping. T. stands in front facing out into her adoring public, crouches and springs and I throw her the rest of the way up above my head. We allow gravity to help us out on the way down. The years of benchwarming and spectating partnerwork at the Pretentiousville Ballet Academy have finally paid off.
The old Dance Master had spent his youth and performing life with Balanchine and was overly fond of the big ugly squatty pre-jump pliés that make even the most limber and elegant body look like a grenade explosion waiting to happen. (And I may always hate the old hag for not telling me earlier that my legs were just too short for the sport.)
It always struck me that the male dancers had all the fun, completely defying time and gravity, getting all the height and power in soaring feet above the floor. And it must be said that male dancers have lovely behinds, the longest careers and are given only the kindest of criticism. To say nothing of those fucking awful pink shoes.
My aim in life has switched from longing to be a cygnet or stupid princess (or other role that I do not fit and would not make with the happy) to being the most enthusiastic stage-hand, a basic mechanism to throw the sunshine about the room, a lifter and hauler of toddlers. Flying may be beyond me now, but it's not for her and that's just as good.
Life is so sweet when it's not driving me mad.
PS: Awesome hair knot things. Wish I could play with wood like this.