That daring Daughter of mine did it again. In high school mere days, she raised her hand and asked to be a performer in the first soiree of the year. "Soiree" has such high-falutin' vibes associated with it, doesn't it? But a "soiree" here is akin to a talent show, but a talent show of kids in the school of the arts school-within-a-school around these here parts. Think of it as a talent show on steroids.
My understanding is it's pretty unheard of for the freshman to perform during the first semester soirees. But Daughter doesn't care about what's been done before. Daughter cares about what the possibilities are now. And those possibilities include her stepping up on stage and dancing.
By herself. Showcased with fabulously talented kids. Dancing.
While her mother frets and stews and worries in the run-up to the performance. "Is she ready?" "Will the others be welcoming?" "Will she feel less than adequate?" "What if she falls?" [None of which I let on to Daughter, fear not.]
When, truly, I only should have been thinking, "Wait 'til she soars."
No surprise, is it, then, that I cried when she started her dance? True. Held my hand to my heart -- all Pledge of Allegiance like (without the "under God" muttered) -- and wept.
Her talent, sure. Her beauty, yeah. Her commitment, I guess.
But mostly, her daring.
My daring Daughter dancing divinely.
You try not to weep. I double dog dare you.