Believe it or not, I took 5 years of dance classes. Tap and ballet. And threw in 2 years of jazz just for good measure.
It all started in the first grade. One day a week after school, my friend and I would gather our book satchels (as we then called backpacks) and our dance bags. One of our moms would take us to dance class taught by Mrs. Cox.
As Spring arrived, we ordered and received our costumes for the recital. A different costume for each dance number! It was so exciting… until two days before the big day.
There were these little red spots. All over me. And they started itching. Really bad.
Yep. Chicken Pox.
I ended up missing my first dance recital. I missed the awards ceremony at school (although my dad proudly stepped in and accepted mine). I missed the end-of-year class party.
My parents were my heroes. But I learned during those couple of weeks that there were some things they just couldn’t change. And now I know that as bummed as I was, it probably was just as painful for them.
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