As I sat in a hot auditorium watching a bunch of kids skip around, it occurred to me that ballet recitals are not my idea of fun.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Uubjnt1mD9L45GSRtGxwPlvF5ay_Cyn_S8QgA6z832LJoPA2sC2uXUzMyKRBrziyj8LtR7dAeEV258u469bLU-wNGsw4hNAS8roCv4MFARe0AMzvsfCoSuyPHf_75MIlTLn5XEgBlMIa/s400/CRW_4349_2.jpg)
Then my daughter appeared on stage.
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I moved forward in my seat.
A smile crossed my face.
The music started, and my breath caught in my throat.
My heart swelled with love.
And I realized that every parent in the room felt exactly the same way about his or her daughter.
You know something? Ballet recitals aren't so bad after all.
Dinner last night: oven-fried parmesan chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, leftover chocolate birthday cake with vanilla ice cream
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