Dance Fever, originally uploaded by blondemom.

Silence envelopes us as we wait for the traffic light to turn green, not because we were both engrossed in deep thought, but because we couldn’t decide on what song to listen to and Miss C was miffed that I’d left her favorite Jimmy Buffett CD, the one with Jolly Mon, at home.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Mommy, can I tell you a secret?

“Sure, what is it?”

“I want to be a famous ballerina like Angelina Ballerina when I grow up!”

My heart swells after hearing her express a heartfelt desire to become a famous ballerina just like a character in a storybook that is a bedtime favorite. We run an errand at Home Depot and afterwards, instead of heading straight to daycare to pick up Miss A, I tell Miss C we are going to stop by a local dance studio to ask about lessons.

We are greeted with the staccato noise of little girls laughing and chattering and scurrying to get ready for a 4:15 dance class.

The teacher invites us to sit on the dance studio floor to observe a group of 5 to 7-year-old girls as they practice for the spring dance recital. She sits down on the floor with us for a few minutes and tells us more about the regular classes, as well as a summer dance camp in June with a princess theme. Class begins and after the girls warm up and get all the silliness out of their systems, they practice a tap routine in front of the large mirror, a gaggle of arms and legs and pony tails.

Miss C lays her head on my lap and does not say a word for the twenty minutes or so that we observe the lesson. She is completely enamored with the whole thing.

I leave with a registration form and ask when the summer schedule will be posted on their website.

Summer dance camp in June is now a shoe in. A ballet flat, to be precise.

So do you have daughters (or nieces or cousins) who take dance? What is the ideal age to start lessons? Four or five? Miss C starts her fourth soccer season in March and expressed interest in dance last year, but I procrastinated and never got around to seriously scoping out local studios. I just hope that turning 6 in June won’t suddenly translate into her thinking ballerinas or princesses are suddenly “uncool.” The dance studio we are signing up with is also offering a summer dance camp with a High School Musical theme. That will be our backup plan, but I kind of hope she hangs on to the princess years for a little while longer.

I am not kidding when I say Miss C just ran in here with an empty Miller Lite bottle she procured from the bowels of our loveseat and exclaimed, “Mommy, Daddy, look what I found… a beer in the couch!”

We have no idea how it got there.

Cough.

Snow Day, originally uploaded by blondemom.

The girls woke up and ran to the front window, although we really just have a dusting of snow. What is it with the wimpy snow in Nashville the past few years? The last significant snow storm we had was in January 2003, when Miss C was a baby. That was the day it literally took me hours to make the 9-mile drive home from my office. Miss C has a pair of perfectly lovely Osh Kosh snow bibs hanging in her closet. And collecting dust.

Although I’m more than ready for flip flop and capris weather, it’s kind of nice for winter to have one last hurrah, even if it is kind of wimpy. At least the girls get to stay home for the day and I get to attempt to work from home this morning instead of driving in.

Pssst to my home schoolin’ peeps…do you have snow days?

Miss C announced matter-of-factly on the way home from school not long ago that she was going to Fairy Land with one of her classmates.

I am fairly well-versed in all things Disney, because Lord knows you can’t escape the long arm of Mickey. We have Mickey Mouse sliced cheese in the refrigerator and Disney Princess toothpaste and hair detangler in the bathroom. But, excuse me, Fairy Land? Fairy Land is unchartered territory.

Later I was checking e-mail while she did homework and she startled me scared the crap out of me by crying out, “Mommy help! I’m stuck! I can’t get down!,” and pretending to be stuck to the top of the end table in the den. She then proceeded to show me where her wings were growing out of her back.

The imaginative fairy chronicles have gone on for a few weeks and she and two other friends even have special fairy names. Miss C is Aman, not to be mistaken for Almond, which is what I thought she was saying until she corrected me. I guess I thought she and her fairy friends all had fairy food names, a la Strawberry Shortcake, but I also had PMS at the time and everything starts to look and sound like something good to eat during that time of the month. Apparently this week, however, her fairy wings are gone. She came home from school and solemnly announced, “Mommy, I’m not a fairy any more.” Her magic crystal is broken, or at least that’s what her head boss friend fairy told her.

Just to confirm this breaking news, while I was writing this yesterday I asked her to confirm why she is no longer a fairy.

“Because mommy, the crystal in my fairy necklace broke…REMEMBER?”

Translation: “DUH Mommy, don’t you know anything? I TOLD YOU that my magic fairy crystal broke. Whatever.”

Good grief, I’m doing well to keep up with Miss C’s real life social network at school. Keeping up with her imaginary personas and those of her friends is almost too much for me to handle.

I took the girls to a new indoor play facility on Saturday. It was just the antidote for a cold and dreary day. There is a nifty large sand box area that the girls gravitated to immediately. I talked Miss C out of hitting the sand first and she happily trotted over to the artwork zone, but it didn’t take Miss A long to meander over to the sand. She is, after all, still 2, and 2-year-olds will willingly roll around in a bed of sand like frisky puppies they love the stuff so much.

I was trying to keep an eye on both girls amidst a large crowd of playing children and their parents milling about, when I heard a child start crying and realized my child was the culprit. I practically swung on a vine over kids to get to the sandbox and scold Miss A for rudely taking a toy truck away from a smaller child and making her cry. All was well and Miss A and the other girls went back to playing happily. Then a few minutes later another sandbox kid picks up a plastic scoop full of sand and slings it toward the other kids (and thankfully it just missed hitting everyone squarely in the eyes.) His mom was sitting on the edge of the sandbox and not only doesn’t say anything, but practically starts laughing. I was horrified! He started to pick up the plastic scoop to sling more sand and she casually tells him to stop. Later on I saw a little boy sitting at a play picnic table with that mischievous look on his face that says, “I’m about to trash this freaking place!” Sure enough he started raking toy food off the table with his arm as hard as he could and then, because that wasn’t getting a reaction from anyone, picking things up and throwing them off the table. I could tell he was about to have a major tantrum. And then he picked up the biggest toy on the table and slung it as far as he could. “Hey buddy, we don’t throw toys!” I said to him. His mom finally rushed over to politely shush him as if she was afraid he might break if she raised her voice.

I’m one of those moms, gasp, who will publicly scold her children. I have picked my kids up and toted them out of stores kicking and screaming.

I tend to believe that the parents who chuckle amusingly when their kids act like brats in public will be crying in their wine glasses when those same kids are teenagers. And no, my kids are definitely not perfect and I am most definitely not a perfect mom. Most of the time I battle with being an overly impatient parent. So the discipline imbalance can go both ways. But if my child should sling sand toward other kids’ faces? I’m not going to chuckle into my Starbucks cup and trip off into la la la suburban mommy “my kids are so amusing” land.

Gamer, originally uploaded by blondemom.

A girl undeniably on the cusp of 3. A girl so proud of her fuzzy leopard skirt she practically strutted into daycare. A girl who counted to 25 this week at school. A girl who came with me today to deliver sissy’s lunch box and declared she was ready to go to kindergarten, too. A girl who will, without hesitation, look you in the eye and tell you her name and then ask you yours. A girl who is potty trained by day. A girl who loves chocolate milk perhaps more than anything on this Earth besides mommy and daddy and sissy. A girl who loves to dance. A girl who still sucks her thumb. A girl who is still my baby.

Because I know everyone is on the edge of their seats, here is my woeful tale of influenza. I did test positive for the flu, like so many people out there. Apparently there is a nifty nasal swab test wherein the nurse takes the world’s longest q-tip and sticks it up your nose. This also confirmed to me that I’m in the right career. For the most part as an editor I work happily alone in my little office at work or at home, I deal with words, and not many clients, and no one needs me to shove a q-tip up their nostril.

I got a prescription for Tamiflu and when I started taking it Monday I felt sort of OK, but on Tuesday I felt absolutely horrible: Bubonic Plague on a cracker horrible, crying jag and wishing I could just sleep for 36 hours straight horrible. I could barely get out of bed. And then at some point Tuesday night I had a cathartic come to Jesus sweatathon and lost about 5 pounds in sweat through my scalp and back, which is also the exact bulk amount of Girl Scout thin mint cookies I’d eaten over the last few weeks so it all evened out and I didn’t even have to go to the gym.

Walgreens conveniently had a sale on Lysol Wipes and I have cleaned every inanimate object in this house and in my purse. Seriously, when was the last time you sterilized your cell phone or your car lock clicker? Made you think, didn’t I? So far the girls are just fine, and as I type this I am washing sheets and towels in hot water and with a good dousing of color safe bleach…again. Hubby tested negative for flu but is battling his own ear and sinus crud.

As far as the timing of all of this, I just sent four large transcripts to a client last Friday for review and this week was a slow period for me at the office. It was as if karma conceded, “OK, now would be a convenient time for you to fall apart.” I’m a planner, even when I don’t intend to be.

I’m sure you can’t tell, but I’m also one of those annoying people who finds humor in just about anything and as I was slumped down in my chair in the waiting area at the doctor’s Monday, flipping through a surprisingly current magazine, I glanced around at the other patients. To the left was an elderly woman with a walker. To the right was an elderly woman in a wheelchair, with no legs. That’s right. No legs. Seriously, it was as if God was saying, “You think you’ve got it bad? At least you’re young AND you’ve got legs.”