Tutu Lore (a May Day parable)

NooNoo has a tutu.  Oh, a tutu! 

It's a tutu basically in size zero of pale lavender that slips nicely over her onezies and seems to go with just about everything. She wears it easily and proudly, and totally unselfconsciously. When NooNoo plops herself upon her mama's lap, the gauzy folds spread out around her like a prima ballerina taking her final, glorious bow in Swan Lake  moments before the bouquets arrive. She's Sleeping Beauty and Titania and Giselle all rolled into one, and the effect is indeed indescribable.

In truth, her arms are not quite as graceful nor as long yet as one would expect in order for her to star in such demanding roles, but this is due mainly to all those adorable folds, creases and delectable pouches that adorn them, and also of course because of her age; nor is her hair perfectly styled or sufficiently abundant at this point to hold a tiara; and being less than three months old naturally she is not nearly tall enough yet for a rousing and flawless pas de deux. Nonetheless, she's irresistibly engaging, with a certain transcendency of movement that causes an audience comprised of all sorts of otherwise rational adults to go simply gaga over her diminutive little tutu presence; they demand and eagerly anticipate more and more of her irrepressible encores, which usually occur after naps and diaper changes.

And yet despite all the baby fanfare, hullaboo and overload of attention she receives- especially when NooNoo hams it up with those sillynilly expressions of clueless wonder- there is a certain natural grace to the way she casually drops her head onto your shoulder and delicately, almost imperceptibly choreographs a kind of seamless cheek to cheek. . . .