Monday, April 20, 2009
I am now learning four different styles of dance: ballet, tap, pointe, and lyrical jazz. This year is my 5th year in ballet, 4th year in tap, and 1st in pointe and lyrical jazz. Pointe is hard work, but it's so worth it. Jazz is becoming one of my new favorites, but pointe and ballet will always be on the top of my list.
I actually wrote this post a while back, so I updated it to say that I have made it to pointe :) I just thought I'd post it.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
This sun is shining in my face and I wake up. I look at the clock hanging on my wall and I moan. It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning. I’m never able to sleep in on the weekends because the sun lights up my white room, making it impossible to sleep.
Deciding that it is pointless to try and sleep in the sun lit room, I get out of bed.
I stretch and yawn, whishing I was still in my nice warm bed fast asleep. Then I look outside and see the tree directly out my window. Its branches are full of birds merrily singing in the morning sun that just woke me up. I wonder why I wanted to sleep in when I could send the day with the birds.
I throw my bathrobe on and head down stairs. I smell eggs and sausage cooking on the stove, and my tummy grumbles. I walk into the kitchen, and sure enough, everyone is there helping make the Saturday morning breakfast. It is Brown Family Tradition that the whole family helps make breakfast on a Saturday morning, though it normally more like brunch.
The kitchen is full of people, but it isn’t chaotic. Everyone knows their part and what they have to do. Mom is mixing that homemade pancakes, Dad’s beating the eggs, Mark is frying the bacon, Eli is putting the bread into the toaster and Josh is buttering the toast as it pops up, James pouring milk into glasses for the eight of us, and Kyle is setting the table.
“Morning sleepy head,” mom says.
“Morning,” I say, rubbing my eyes.
“Hey Sophie,” Mark says. He’s always called me Sophie, not Sophia.
“Hey,” I say, “What do you need me to do?” I ask Mom. It looks like everything was taken care of, but I still wanted to help somehow.
“Um,” Mom says, glancing around, “You can make these pancakes while I go put a load of laundry in.” She walks towards me carrying the bowl of pancake batter and hands it to me.
“Okay,” I say, taking the huge bowl from her and walking towards the stove where Mark was standing. I set the bowl on the counter next to the stove top and went to find a frying pan to cook the pancakes on. I find on drying in the dish rack. I take it back to the stove and start cooking the pancakes, placing them on a plate that was on the counter when I was done.
I love Saturday mornings. The kitchen is filled with the smells of bacon and eggs and pancakes and toast, and there is laughter from Josh and Eli as they are trying to see how fast they could get there job done. Dad was beating the dozen eggs, whistling to himself like he always did. Mark was doing some sort of gig while cooking the bacon, and I laugh.
“What?” he asks as if he wasn’t doing something totally ridiculous.
“Nothing,” I say, figuring that there probably wasn’t a good reason that he was dancing around besides that fact that he loved bacon.
Pour, flip, plate. That’s how then morning went for me. By the time I got the last pancake poured into a circle, the first one was ready to flip. The frying pan was so long that it covered two burners, and if I did it right, I could manage to get eight pancakes on at a time. By the time I ran out of pancake batter, I was a master pancake flipper.
“Okay, pancakes are done,” I say as I take the plate and place it in the middle of the table. Kyle throws a towel on the huge pile to keep it warm. Dad takes my place at the stove and starts cooking the eggs.
More food eventually makes it way to the table, and then we can eat. By that time it’s 10 o’clock, and I’m starving. Mom comes back from doing laundry, smelling the air.
“I see my little chefs are almost done,” she says, “it’s so nice not having to cook by myself.” She smiles at us all, blowing a kiss to Dad since the kitchen is packed with people and she couldn’t exactly make her way towards him at the moment, and he blows one back.
Breakfast is finally ready and the table finally set; Kyle sometimes gets carried away with the very simple job of setting the table. We all sit down, and the smell of the pancakes makes me realize just how hungry I am.
Dad prays, and the food gets passed in every direction just like dinner. We eat and talk, laughing at the silly things we’ve done in the past, and planning what we will do tomorrow.
Pancakes for breakfast every Saturday gets tiring, but I love them all the same. It’s not the pancakes I look forward to every Saturday, it’s the time I get to spend with my family; the people I love most. Some families don’t even eat dinner together, and I’m glad my family makes time to be together. Sometimes I have to miss going to friends houses, or I’m late for parties because of our family breakfast, but I don’t mind. Some people tease me for it, but what does it matter what they think? I much rather spend a breakfast with my family and be late for a party than to miss my family the whole morning.
I finished eating and get up to put my plate in the sink, and wonder why it took so long to make the food when we eat it so fast.
“Is it alright if I go to Hannah’s?” I ask mom, coming to stand behind her chair.
“Sure,” she says.”
“Thanks,” and I run up stairs to get dresses. Jeans and a light sweater ought to do for today. The sun was shining and there was a light cool breeze in the air. My idea of a perfect day.
I bike to Hannah’s house, and find her laying on the living room floor with school books all around her, still in her pajamas. She’s staring at a piece of
“So I take it you’re feeling better?” I say, letting myself into the house, kicking off my shoes at the door and going to lie on the floor next to Hannah.
“Yep,” she says, looking at me with a smile on her face. Then she turns back to her homework, muttering numbers under her breath has she tries to figure out a complicated algebra problem.
“Want some help?” I ask, looking at her confused face.
“Yes please!” She says, sounding very greatful. Hannah had never been good at math. We spend a good part of the morning working on her math homework, trying to go quickly so we would have more time to do other more interesting things than homework.
“Done!” she says an hour later, throwing down her pencil and looking relieved, “What now?”
“I was thinking that we could go on a bike ride, since we didn’t get to yesterday,” I say.
“Typical Sophia,” She laughs, “wanting to go on a bike ride. Just let me go get some decent clothes on,” and she runs up stairs to change out of her pajamas into something more suitable for bike riding. I wait down stairs in the living room, which looks like a messy library with all the books scattered across the floor. I sit myself on the sofa and wait for her to come down, which is taking a considerable amount of time considering she is just getting dressed.
After what seems like five very long minutes, she comes down.
“Ok, I’m ready,” she says in a cheery voice.
“Gosh, what took you so long?” I say in a sarcastic voice, then I smile, and this ruins the effect.
“Nothing,” she says, “Let’s go.” I heave myself off the sofa which seems to have sucked me into its soft cushions.
Finally we are out the door, riding our bikes in the warm sun shine. I feel full of energy and happier than I’ve been in months. The warmth of the sun pressing down on my face is the most wonderful feeling of summer. The wind blows the hair out of my face and I rush down the street, smiling and laughing. I don’t know why being outside make me fell so excited and full of energy, I just know what I love it.
Being cooped up inside all winter make me fell closed in; uneasy. When I am outside I feel free; like I can so anything in the world.
I stop, and Hannah skids to a halt besides me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks
“Something,” I say in a slow voice, “Something isn’t right.” I don’t know what is wrong, there just is. Something is different, and it’s bad.
“What do you mean?” Hannah asks, looking at me worried eyes
“I don’t really know,” I answer truthfully, “there’s just … something; something out of place.
And then it hit me.
“I’m sorry Hannah, but I have to go home now,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re feeling ok?” she asks, looking at me with a worried expression on her face.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I say, “I just have to go home; something wrong,” and I turn my bike around and start peddling as fast as I can towards home.
“Wait for me!” Hannah yells after me, turning her bike around and peddling after me. I don’t look back, don’t slow down, I just go forward.
It starts to rain, hard. I’m soaked and I peddle fast into the oncoming rain, my hair sticking to my face.
I don’t know why I am feeling like this, I just now I have to get home; fast.
“I’ll call you later,” I yell, hoping that Hannah can hear me. I have to do this alone, and she seems to understand that from the tone in my voice.
The sounds of her bike tired on the pavement fades away and she leaves me to face whatever might come alone.
I race home as fast as I can, hardly paying attention to where I am going; I’ve gone down this path many times before that I know it by heart. I’m soaked from the rain and my hair is sticking to my face, but I keep going. The feeling is growing stronger, and my urge to get home is driving my forward, telling my legs to peddle faster, though that was completely impossible.
Finally, I’m home. I’m breathing hard, and I’m scared. How did I know that something was wrong? I’ve never felt this way before, and I can’ really explain it; I just know that something is wrong
I walk up to the front door and slowly raise my hang to the doorknob. Did I want to go in? Did I want to know what I’d find inside? Fear gripped at my heart, and for a moment I was tempted to go back to Hannah’s house and wait. No, I came all this way, I need to stay. Something is wrong and I have to find out what it is, right now.
I take a deep breath and turn the doorknob. I walk into the hallway slowly, closing the door silently behind me. There is tension and anger in the air, and I second guess my choice. I must stay, I tell myself, kicking off my shoes and walking slowly into the living room.
I find Mom and Mark in the living room, which is normal, but this isn’t the same. Mom is glaring at Mark, and Mark looks upset.
“Sophia, just go to your room. Mark and I need to talk ... alone,” Mom tells me, anger on her face as she glares at Mark. I stare at him, wondering what in the world he did that was so bad that got Mom irritated like this. He looks at me with wide eyes, pleading me, without words, to understand . And as if he whispered in my ear, I know what he did.