It begins

Effie stepped into a new world this week as she became a ballerina princess in her "Be a Princess" dance camp. It was five days of ballet slippers, leotards, and slicked back ponytails and buns, pulled tight by a frustrated and perhaps slightly sweaty mom who just wanted her daughter's baby-fine and stick straight hair to look perfect. I easily ignored her tears and pleading that I was hurting her. Which brings me to my point. It has begun. For me, not so much her. I can already see her at fifteen, in her pointe shoes, bitter and emaciated (bulimia or anorexia?), hating me and ballet. Not that I want this or the eating disorder, which I do take seriously (not a problem for us at this point though). But will I be the mother who pushes her daughter? I only ask because I really want her excel. I want to see her in pointe shoes and defying gravity. Not to the point that I would force her, but I just honestly think that ballet is so amazing and can see myself walking a fine line. I guess its good for me that she loves to do it, and by the time she is done with it, I will be happily able to obsess about her playing softball or barrel racing, or cheer leading, or maybe something cool I don't even know about. Anyway, I will keep control of my emotions and projecting and vicarious living. But she cannot escape the tight ponytails. On that issue I will not budge--also it is a requirement of the studio, so I have principle on my side (this time!).