You may recall the agony we went through in early September, when a certain three-year-old learned that, yet again, she would not be attending dance class.  The weekly drama as older sisters rode off in the carpool was so heartbreaking that I actually considered enrolling the child.

Fortunately, I am married to the SuperHusband.  Who brilliantly proposed: Why not give her chocolate milk?

After a month’s trial, we can confirm the SuperHusband’s brilliance.  Promised a cup of chocolate milk every week *just as soon as the big kids leave for class*, our preschooler has lost all interest in studying ballet.  No more tears, no more pleading, just a cheerful “bye kids” and then, “look, I’m in my seat, ready for my chocolate milk.”

Hurray.  Suits me.

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Quiet weekend here, by the way.  I firmly resolve to direct my goofing-off towards actually reading all the words in the volume 3 of Mary, Mother of the Son, so that I can report back with a review soon.  (Though you already know the answer: order it.)

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