Call me crazy, but . . .

. . . I could be a professional recital attendee.

Honestly. I love kids' recitals. I don't even have to know the kid. I could sit for hours listening to scratchy melodies eeked out of violins, staccato tunes plunked on pianos, or pirouettes spun in tiny tutus.


I look at those terrified faces and trembling hands and think about the courage mustered to put themselves out in front of us, all for the love of their art form (or because their parents made or bribed them), and my heart simply turns into cotton candy.


And I like it when my heart goes all soft and sweet like that.



I tell everyone I know with kids to pul-lease invite me to a recital. But very few take me seriously.



Why is my earnestness so hard to believe? For goodness sakes, people have been inviting professional criers to funerals throughout the ages, so why not recitals?


Oh, did I mention that, from time to time, a tear or two wells up? That's not too embarrassing or anything, is it?









Images: Tutu, crying ladies