ten tiny toes

I've always had a love-hate relationship with my toes. Perhaps "always" is an overstatement; I don't actually recall having any feelings at all about my toes before age 8 or so. But certainly by the time I was well into elementary school, I was aware of the fact that my toes, while very important to such activities as standing and walking, were not going to receive the treatment they deserved. You see, by that time I was on my way to a long relationship with ballet, and I quickly realized that my toes were going to take the brunt of the impending damage.

Yup. Those small nubs on the ends of my feet were going to find themselves shoved into pointe shoes, holding my entire body weight up for hours upon hours. And the most I would do to protect them was some first aid tape, maybe some moleskin if they were really good, and a lambswool pad stuffed between them and the glue-and-fabric blocks of my pointe shoes. No wonder that now at age 31 I'm still sporting toenail bruises from a bad pair of Blochs from the winter I was 13! I still can't wear open-toed shoes without nail polish.

Small price to pay, I suppose, for the pride I have for the commitment I made to dance, for the strength of body and mind I earned by spending my life in a ballet studio, rehearsing while my "normal" friends were at the mall, or the beach, or on ski trips or summer camp. Never mind that I did take a long break, from age 19 to 24. That time away from ballet allowed me to shift my perspective, and come back to the hard work with a new level of dedication - made easier by the unwavering support of my darling husband - one I hadn't had when I was a teenager.

What's the point in all this? I stare at the tiny toes of my two-week-old daughter and I wonder, will she want to follow my path? Will the siren song of ballet rope her in too? Will I be able to handle it if she wants to trade a normal childhood and adolescence for the probable pain and suffering that is the unfair trade for the occasional joy of a good performance? Or will I find myself tempted to keep her away from the romance of a dusty, sweaty ballet studio, wanting to lead her instead towards safer pursuits like basketball, rock-n-roll, or college? Her soft, sweet toes will carry her to a future I can't even imagine now. She'll probably paint her toenails all sorts of colors, squash her feet into uncomfortable shoes because they just go so perfectly with the outfit, and most certainly she'll stub those toes on furniture and swear like her Dad does when he does the same thing.

The swearing, at least, I can be absolutely certain of.