Ricci Schwarzler - Exasperating

 I’m five years old and I know what I want. I want to be a ballerina. I love watching it on telly, twirling and jumping and looking ever so graceful. I’m five, I know I can do those fancy moves too and I want those pointe shoes. None of those ballet slippers for me, I know what I want.

I discussed this regularly with Mummy whilst we were watching TV, whilst she was cooking the dinner, whilst she was washing up, cleaning, ironing, cleaning the fish tank and mowing the lawn. I know she’s listening she has to be. I’m her daughter and as all us five-year-olds know, all our parents listen to everything we say and hang off every word.

Off we finally went. She realised that we had to get some leotards and some ballet pointes.

Oh I was going to be a brilliant ballerina but I was somewhat disappointed when the lady in the shop told me I couldn’t have pointes because my feet weren’t developed enough. Honestly, what would she know? Anyway, she refused to provide them even after I debated my point with her quite ferociously.

We arrived home and I dressed up to show my father who was suitably impressed although I’m not sure why he had that strange smile on his face.

Next day off to ballet classes, at the hall which was an hrs drive. I sang joyfully half the way and then broke out my recorder for a little practice of the Natnal Antem. We arrived with the other five-year-olds but Mummy did look a little weary. She must have had a late night.

In we went and I was so excited to see the big mirrors and bars. I stood straight and tall, heels together toes outwards, hands gracefully in front of me, fingers pointing inwards.

The teacher walked around and highlighted what everybody needed to do but obviously I knew she would be suitably impressed with my skill as a ballerina.

She walked in front of me, around the side of me, and behind me.

‘Pull your stomach in’, she told me.

‘Push your chest out’, she added.

I tried.  Tried ever so hard. It was exasperating. My 5-year-old extended stomach did not want to come in and my five year-old flat chest could not go out any further. I came to the conclusion quite quickly that she didn’t know what she was talking about and there clearly wouldn’t be a ballet teacher up to my standard.

I stomped over to Mummy after the lesson and said. ‘Well I don’t think we’ll be doing that again, I wish you hadn’t pushed me into it, mummy. That woman wants the impossible. No need to come back.’

With that my mother grabbed my hand, dragged me to the car and screeched off up the street homewards.

I did add,

‘Mind you mummy. I think if you got me a pair of pointes I could do this all on my own.’

Then ‘Why are you driving so fast, has some other driver made you angry mummy?’