My little snowflake

Attending your child’s Christmas play is one of those markers of good parenting isn’t it? It is just one of those things you break your neck getting to, even though after the first one you know to lower your expectations a bit, say from the second floor to the lower ground.

You see your child at breakfast, maybe bicker a bit about losing the hairbrush again and running out of the current favourite cereal, and then an hour later you are craning to catch sight of each other, grinning like a loon through your tears, waving like they are off on the Mayflower to the new world.

This year, Alexa scored the role of snowflake, one of a flurry who danced arythmically around on stage to tinkling music, waving sparkley sticks.  It was very sweet, and I was glad to be there.  But is it awful if I confess I was also very glad that I had a train to catch and had to leave early?  Maybe that’s one of those things I should keep to myself, like the fact that I rarely bother to shave my legs in the winter.

I’ll go now.

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