Pirouette

We pull off the street under the hotel’s covered entrance where dark-suited attendants direct us behind another car. When we stop, I open the minivan window and tell an attendant that we didn’t mean to pull into valet parking. As we ease back out, my daughter bursts into tears.

“What’s the matter, princess?” I ask.

“I want ballet parking, Daddy . . .”

I explain that we just meant to park ourselves and had driven into the wrong entrance.

“What’s wrong with ballet parking?” she insists, wet around the eyes. She’s still pouting when we carry her into the party room.

third birthday—

she twirls around

in a new pink tutu