My pineapple princess

This past Saturday, Frances had her second annual dance concert:

For these last two years, Frances has taken dance through a great organization that comes to her school to teach her.  I love this for many reasons, the top two being (1) she doesn’t take dance class during family time (weekends or evenings); and, (2) she dances with all of her friends.  I’ll give you three guesses which of those reasons Frances likes better:

The girls danced to Annette Funicello’s “Pineapple Princess,” which as best as I can tell was from her heyday as part of the teen duo with Frankie Avalon in the 1950s and 60s.  I dare you to listen to this song and not smile though; they picked a good one:

And now, while you’re listening to that ridiculousness, picture all of these adorable girls shaking their tutus, pointing their toes and sashaying around the stage for a good 2 ½ minutes.  I laughed until I cried, probably to hide the fact that I was crying.  Dance already stirs up more tears than almost anything for me; add Frances to the mix and it’s a recipe for waterworks.

Once again, Frances drew quite a crowd to her show:

Mr. Pyles, Gram-E, Nana, George, Pop, Grandpa, Daddy, Grandma and Trey

After the final curtain call, we headed to Red Robin for dinner with some of the other families.  Carissa asked to sit with our table and George was in heaven.  To say he loves his lady friends is an understatement:

My sides still hurt from laughing so much at George and Carissa’s ongoing flirt-session.  They were quite a pair.

This will be the last dance recital with this group—Frances can’t keep the same in-school program with Kindergarten starting this fall.  I’ll double-triple check that she wants to keep dancing outside of school.  We are blessed with many great dance programs in this area (Richmond Ballet being one of them), so I am not short of places to take her.  But dance is hard enough, even when you are passionate about it.  I know the way a song can bubble that chasm below the breastbone, involuntarily moving your limbs and stirring up the butterflies waiting impatiently in your stomach.  I know that feeling and I see that reflected in Frances’s eyes when she hears “The Nutcracker,” “Carmen,” or even the “Curious George” soundtrack.  As silly as it sounds, that passion is what you cannot teach and I want to ensure hers doesn’t get lost in the fray of mirrors, recitals and peer pressure.  Maybe I’m gun-shy or a bit overprotective, trying so desperately not to be a dance mom that I’m becoming a ‘you cannot dance’ mom.  I’m keeping an opened mind, eyes, ears, and heart.

If Frances wants to continue dance, I will be her biggest fan.  Well, almost her biggest fan:

Happy Monday, everyone!