The lady sat in the dressing area nudged her friend in the arm and whispered loudly ‘she’s crying, is she ok?’. Unable to resist I tried to follow her gaze to see which poor soul was sobbing in such a public arena and I almost squeaked with surprise when, as I turned my head, I felt a teardrop land on my cheek.
It was I, the mad lady in the corner sobbing at a children’s dance class. As I reached into my bag for a tissue and found only bogey filled ones I felt the wetness grow heavier on my skin and then I let out a huge smile.
Six months ago, my beautiful baby was bound by spica, trapped in a plaster cage that physically protected and bound her and yet suddenly I was here, sitting in a cold damp waiting room watching my delightful two-year old girl frolic and dance in a ballet class all on her own. I could see my baby girl, the one the GP told me would be behind physically for years, laughing and twirling as she relished the time away from her mother, dancing with the big girls reclaiming her legs.
Only the day before I had sat in a cold school dance hall and watched my courageous big six-year-old angel put insulin into her leg and then pull on a costume and take centre stage for a dance exam that no bout in hospital was going to stop her attending.
My girls make me appreciate more what I once took for granted. They make me crack with happiness and cry in joy for overcoming so quickly what I am still trying to face.
I give you my dancing princesses….