Domestic Shortcomings

Well this blog practically wrote itself. We have entered the world of competitive dance and my daughter has her first ballet class tomorrow night. I sent her with a good friend (very good friend) to purchase her ballet shoes, tights, foot undies, shorts, etc. in preparation for the season. I say very good friend because shopping at the annual dance wear sale ranks among her least favourite and most stressful activities of her calendar year.

They returned home successful. Although the trying on of my daughter’s ballet shoes became quite a spectacle when everyone gathered round to see the six year old with the biggest and widest feet they had ever seen. She’ll thank me for those later.

When I looked at the ballet shoes I was sure that there was something wrong with them because the elastics that go around her feet were only attached at the back. Now why would said good friend come home with a ‘broken’ pair of ballet shoes?

After placing a distress call I learned the slippers were in fact, not broken, but had to be sewn to fit my daughter’s (gigantic) feet.  This was not good.  I don’t sew. I used to sew; in grade eight home economics class but I cannot recall sewing since.

It was too late to ask for anyone else to do this. She needed these ready for tomorrow. I booted up my laptop and pulled up a YouTube video on how to attach elastics to ballet shoes. I wanted to have the necessary materials ready so I went to get a needle and thread.  Right. I don’t know where we keep our needles and thread. So, I had to ask my husband where he keeps his sewing supplies. In his closet I found a nice basket with a fairly large variety of needles, scissors and thread. Perfect. At least one of us can claim some competence in this area. Wait a minute. Why isn’t HE doing this???

I started the first video of a wonderful, domestically capable mother who did an excellent job of explaining and showing the process. I did have to watch the video several times and I replayed one particular part (about folding on the pencil mark) about twenty times. I apologized to my daughter who was watching me unravel and told her that her mommy had other strengths and that one day I hoped she would remember those and not this moment of shame.

I began to sew. F***! F***ing h*ll! The expletives were flying fast and furious. Who sells broken ballet shoes anyway?  But I stayed focussed and persevered. I was going to fight my way through cramping hands and pricked fingers.

An hour later and approximately four centimeters of elastic sewn, the shoes were finished. It felt good that I had done this for my daughter. We are in this dance thing together; for better or for worse or until the next pair of ‘broken’ shoes comes along. And if nothing else, I had to try and make up for endowing her with gigantic feet.