The girls and I have discovered a wonderful multigenerational art/music class that meets once-a-month in a luxurious retirement complex around the corner from our house. It's super-mellow, non-competitive, fun and free. Residents and kids participate in the classes together; sharing paint brushes, peeling stickers, twirling with scarves, singing, holding hands and tickling bellies. We usually arrive like a hurricane; me, the crazed working mom, trying to straddle two worlds at once and not doing a very good job in either of them. Lucie, bouncing into the room ahead of me, fearless, full of noisy energy, and posing a serious threat to hips everywhere. Violet alternates between going limp on the floor because she didn't get to put on her shoes by herself and hanging from my clothes and demanding "Up! Up! Up!" thirty-six times. And then. I flop down and stare as Lucie shuffles around the circle, picking up the hand of each resident and, stopping just short of a curts