moving up!

My daughter Chloe is three years old. She attends the toddler class in a little school near our place. Back in June last year, we opted for the monthly tuition option because we were not sure if she would last. After a tear-drenched couple of months, she started liking it, stuck to it for the remainder of the year, and last week was her moving-up ceremony. We were proud.

The outfit for the event was ready by January, courtesy of a beautiful godmother. We prayed it would still fit her by March. The practice for the song and dance numbers took a couple of weeks, and although the nanny announced that the kid was cooperating, we were not reassured. Chloe has a history of throwing tantrums in supermarket parking lots just because she was not able to watch Tekken being played in Tom's World.

I bought the correct tights and leotards on my lunch break. I hunted high and low for the correct hair ribbons, which, according to the nanny, should be black-and-white, preferably polka dots, to match her dress. They were expensive, but they were correct.

The event was on Sunday afternoon. In the morning Chloe decided she did not like her white shoes; would not, in fact, be convinced she should wear them. So two hours before the event, the whole family headed out to a nearby department store, where we found new shoes that she wanted to wear.

We got her dressed in the pretty dress. It was also decided that she would not wear the black-and-white hair ribbons after all, and would have her hair up in a bun, with a little hat accessory pinned to it.

We got to the venue in time, where she clung to me. I was wearing five-inch-heels. She weighed twenty kilos. We got through the processional, and she would not sit with the other toddlers by herself. I ended up sitting with the toddlers, the largest person in the front row, with her on my lap.

And there our adventure began.

She went up to receive her certificate of completion, but only in her stockings. She had kicked off her brand-new shoes. She did not want to receive her medal for being picture-smart. I missed the definition for 'picture-smart' because I was chasing her all over the stage. We came down with the medal draped on my arm.

The song number came. She did not want to sing, so she was carried to the stage by the teacher. She then proceeded to wail, while the other toddlers waited for the music to start. When the song started, though, she started to do the actions... while standing in the teacher's embrace. We clapped long and hard when that was over.

After a while, the Chicken Dance came. The mothers rushed about, changing the kids into their tights and leotards and red skirts. Chloe had to be held down by her father, while we struggled to fit her into the costume. We tied red ribbons on her arms, and she went up to the stage. She was in front.

We held our breath.

Chloe ripped off the ribbons, and when the music started, she started to pick her nose. As all the toddlers started gyrating and flapping their arms, she just stood there, picking her nose. She picked her nose until the music ended.

The audience was hysterical. There were about twelve kids on the stage and about sixty assorted relatives cheering, most of them with cameras. My husband was red in the face. By the following day the pictures were all over Facebook.

But we clapped, and cheered, and were proud. That was her moment. If she decided to celebrate it by mining for boogers, so be it.

The school administrator ended the two-hour ceremony by congratulating the parents, and thanking the teachers, and praising the children for a year well done.

We had planned to celebrate by going to Jollibee, but we headed home. We were exhausted.

We got inside the front door, and Chloe started strutting the Chicken Dance.