Dear Luciana,

You had your first ballet class.

We got there early, before anyone else. You were ogling the pretty dresses and shoes and talking to the teacher. I thought I had you.

Then the other kids showed up.

I saw the fear in your eyes first. Then you beelined to my leg and velcroed yourself to my body. I tried to get you off and you turned into silly putty. Every part I peeled off stuck right back on.

“Don’t you want the pretty shoes and dresses?”

No. You needed to pee.

That’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie. You’ve been peeing yourself at preschool, so I keep asking you if you have to go. You figured out the bathroom is a secret exit.

You weren’t even crying until I said, “Don’t you want to play?” Then you cried straight through my shirt.

“I’m scared.” “I want pretzels.” “I want a pretty sticker.”

I bribed you with double gummy vitamins and yogurt raisins for dinner. Only yogurt raisins. It didn’t work.

So we stood at the very edge of the stage, you glued to me, and I slowly moved you through the hand motions. Jazz hands through jello. If I’m being honest, I was crushing the other three-year-olds. They are pretty bad.

However, you were bringing me down to their level. I’d lift your hands up and try to do the moves with your arms and legs. You fought me on every single one. I’m pretty sure you thought it was a game. Whatever the other kids did, you did the exact opposite. Every time I tried to have you dance on your feet instead of glued to my leg, your body turned to stone.

Even crying, you still know how to troll.

Thirty minutes of that. My back was surprisingly fine. My legs were on fire.

The teacher told me you were doing great. Of course she did. If you’re doing great, I buy more classes. (I’m being an ass. She was just being encouraging.)

Other parents were there. Nobody judged you… or me. Come on. I know I looked ridiculous, but who in their right mind judges a three-year-old for losing her shit, and a DAD, yes, emphasis on the dad, doing his best to get his ball of goo to dance? No one. Unironically, no one.

At preschool drop-off, you give me a wave. Even the one day I wanted histrionics. At ballet, I was right there the whole time, not going anywhere, and you wouldn’t let go of me.

Separation anxiety without the separation.

If I leave, you’re fine. If I stay, you’re not. Except when I’m on work travel and call you. You hate that. I don’t know what the rule is. I don’t think you do either.

I have guesses. I travel a lot, and I’m usually leaving right when you’re sleepy. I say good night to the monsters in your closet every night, and the person who scares away the monsters is magically not there in the morning.

Also, Mommy left.

And by left, I mean she is dead.

Does that have anything to do with you being afraid of ballet?

Yes. Mommy being dead has everything to do with everything.

I don’t know if you even like ballet. You’ve never said one word about it. You like to dance. When I put on Donald Duck singing “Let It Go” on YouTube, you dance on the table. And the couches. That has nothing to do with ballet. But the dresses are cute.

Dancing was Mommy’s idea. I never really thought about why. We were both notoriously bad dancers. But she also notoriously loved cute pictures, and in the three-year-old bracket, you in a tutu might be the number one seed.

Abuela has definitely mentioned ballet. Double the guilt.

But ballet was probably mine. In the book, I wrote a fight with Mommy that never happened. I ask her if it’s weird to have a ballet recital for three-year-olds. Even there, she says, “Ballet was your idea.” I say, “I just wanted cute pictures.”

I would really like the cute pictures.

At the very last second, the teacher handed out stickers. You ran up and asked for ten. Yeah, you didn’t “earn” them.

But your mommy is dead. You get stickers whether you earned them or not.

Next week I’m going to war again. Let’s see if you like tap shoes. If that doesn’t work, it’s back to Paw Patrol while I play on my phone.

Besitos,

Daddy