Disco-Ballerina

I shared this website with my son yesterday. He's 12. His immediate response (it literally took him all of nine seconds to soak in and analyze the entire blogsite) was, "You should have named it 'Discoballerina."
The aggravating part is . . . . I think he's right.
The name is so completely appropriate. How could he know this? His insight is uncanny!
Both my kids do this to me all the time - humiliate, belittle, leave me speechless and deeply impress me with their insightful nature simultaneously. How is it that I did not think of this on my own?

I loved ballet classes as a child. While all the other kids were disco-dancing at the roller rink, my sister and I took ballet class at an old mansion turned art center on the west side of the town.
My Mother wouldn't let me have toe shoes when the instructor suggested I be allowed to move to the more advanced class. I was five years old and my Mother thought that my feet would be irreparably and permanently disfigured if she allowed this transition. I begged. I cried. I nagged. She didn't budge. I had to be content to envy all my classmates that were allowed to grow while I drudged on in the lower class until I was in my late teens. By then, it was too late to move on.

I learned later, as an adult, that this would be just one of many disappointments and unreachable carrots that was placed before me and then yanked away just when I grew an interest.

My sister got the shoes.