Tomorrow (Sunday) is the dress rehearsal for the cultural event of the season in our home: my daughters’ dance recital.
I have two daughters (ages five and eight) and three dance routines between them. So tomorrow they will show up at the theatre in full faces of stage makeup (!), and three costumes consisting of variations on sequins, spangles, tulle, and lycra. They will dance on stage; they will pose for group and individual photos.
My eight-year-old lass knows to keep her costumes in their plastic shopping bags, tucked away in her closet. My five-year-old darling keeps her costume in its plastic bag too, but it’s hanging on the back of her dining-table chair. I’m fine with that; we both know where it is at all times.
Earlier this week I was preparing to welcome two delightful and legendary scholars to my home and went on a cleaning blitz. Bags were filled with bits of crayons, torn paper, an occasional juice box and the like, and immediately dispatched to our large garbage can by the garage. The house was tidy; I was happy.
Tonight, as I was organizing clothes for tomorrow’s recital, I couldn’t find my five-year-old’s costume. I looked in her closet, in the dress-up box, in the kitchen. Where could it be?
I frantically did a mental survey of when the garbage was last picked up and the timeline looked in my favor. So off I went, at dusk, to the bottom of our considerable outdoor garbage can, hoping no raccoons would join me, and opened and sifted and opened and sifted until . . . a white shopping bag, its flaps neatly tied in a bow, appeared, intact.
The show will go on.
**image is from a vintage paint-by-number kit