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"Once a week I stand in solidarity with other women whose waists are thickening. We have crinkles around our eyes and dimples on our thighs, and when we pli\u00E9, our clicking knees and ankles lend an almost musical accompaniment. After a 25-year hiatus, I am back in ballet class. We line up at the barre, obedient pupils. By some miracle of muscle memory, my fingers unfurl into a delicate arc. My legs are not so fortunate: They struggle to turn out, and while the will is there, the skill and flexibility are not. I&amp;#039;ve spent years as a taxi-service mom, driving my kids to their sports and activities; now I&amp;#039;m reclaiming one of my own. As a matter of fact, there are scores of us moms practicing piano scales again, swimming uninterrupted laps at the pool, relearning a foreign language we once claimed to be fluent in. I&amp;#039;d been feeling rudderless \u2014 my kids in school all day, my career moving more slowly than I would have liked \u2014 when I read that recalling favorite childhood activities might point you toward your true passion. What did I enjoy when I was younger? Easy: dancing. I took ballet from ages 5 to 19. And then I stopped. After college, I found it easier to go to a gym than to search out a dance studio. Eventually I rejected ballet class solely based on the leotard issue (and indeed, putting on a leotard as an adult is every bit as humbling as I&amp;#039;d imagined). But hitting my 40s has taken me down a notch: The weight I bemoaned in my 30s is now the weight I wish I could get back to. RELATED: &amp;quot;How I Finally Let Go of Being Perfect and Stopped Yelling at My Kids&amp;quot; I went into the class knowing I&amp;#039;d feel stiff and awkward. And I was. But one bonus of returning to ballet at my age is that most rivalry and self-judgment are gone. I&amp;#039;m not here to wear the most fashionable getup; I&amp;#039;m not here to win the lead role. Passion? I&amp;#039;m just happy to be doing something I used to love deeply. After fostering my kids&amp;#039; interests for so long, it&amp;#039;s my turn for after-school fun. Taking up my long-neglected practice has been freeing and humbling and invigorating and meditative all at the same time \u2014 my own private time-warp continuum. The class happens to take place at my preteen daughter&amp;#039;s ballet studio. We don&amp;#039;t have class on the same day, but that&amp;#039;s a mere blip on her mortification scale. She laid down strict instructions: &amp;quot;Mom, please don&amp;#039;t ever talk about me,&amp;quot; she begged, adding, &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t even say my name.&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;m likewise forbidden from participating in the final recital; though I pretended to fuss before making any promises, I regard this as a get-out-of-jail-free card. I&amp;#039;m relieved of the obligation to be one of the moms who perform right before the adorable 4-year-olds. So I go to class. I pull on my tights and wriggle into a leotard. I tap into a part of my life I once relished, then lost. But I don&amp;#039;t need to stand onstage demonstrating wobbly arabesques. Some aspects of childhood just aren&amp;#039;t worth revisiting. Laura Amann,a writer and editor, lives outside Chicago with her four children and two dogs. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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