Today I feel wealthy. Not in that Oh Boy, My 401K Is Killing It kind of way, but rather in the way only a veteran educator can.

          I attended the baby shower of a girl who was sixteen last time I saw her, and she was dancing numbers I had choreographed for the musical, “Fame,” that our local performing arts program had chosen.

          She was a sparkler then, and she still is today, two decades later. Her husband is the quiet, decent, flies-under-the-radar boy who always pined for her in high school and who hung in there until she was finally wise enough to recognize him as the jewel he genuinely is. Their mutual adoration throughout today’s party melted me like a Hershey bar between graham crackers and roasted marshmallows.

          I was the “surprise guest” at this party. Her lifelong BFF, who threw this shower, is the mother of two of my piano students. She mentioned recently that a friend of hers was thinking about taking lessons so she could be the accompanist for her voice students. When she told me the girl’s name, I gasped, “What? I KNOW her! She used to be one of my dancers at the JCC!!”

          And that’s the backstory of how my true wealth grew exponentially from last night to today.

          Her pre-school self loved my fashion sense, this dancer of mine, no doubt because my wardrobe was comprised of the kinds of outfits little girls don when they’re playing dress-up: hats, high heels, big purses and sparkly pink dresses. She never missed a chance to tell me how beautiful I looked every time I returned to my street clothes at the end of our dance classes.

          Like me, she also loved hats and had a flair for fashion, so I always told her how great she looked every week, too. We were the Mutual Adoration Society of Fashionistas.

          That’s why coming up with the perfect gift for this beloved student’s baby girl was as easy as life gets: HATS! A year’s worth, a different one for every month of the year, plus an extra,  a special variety, in honor of her one-year birthday. It was such a labor of joy, every last stitch my sewing machine and I produced.

          The extra-special hat, the one for her one-year-birthday, came with a matching double-tiered tutu I made from a gauzy, peach-colored fabric. It was perfect because it sported butterflies all over it, and the final song every week in my dance classes, regardless of ages of the students – and they ranged from three to eighteen – was a Modern dance I’d choreographed called “The Butterfly.” It included a scarf that each dancer could select, before we began, from a substantial cache I always had with me.

          I included a rectangular scarf for the baby to use when her mom, my beloved student, teaches her The Butterfly a year from now. The image of that in my mind started a ten-minute crying jag of pure joy.

          I took my time drawing up a “Key to Your Hat Wardrobe” sheet, replete with swatches of each fabric I’d used and why I’d chosen it for that month. I was having so much fun, I never wanted the project to end. So, with the fabric scraps from each hat, I cut out heart shapes and appliqued them onto a baby-sized quilt that sported ballet dancers.

          I found a wooden treasure box at a boutique in town. I loved it the minute I saw it because it was hand-painted with musical notes and brush strokes of every color imaginable. The quilt, tutu, matching butterfly scarf and all thirteen hats fit inside this treasure box with the perfection of something you know in your heart was simply Meant to Be. There was even room for my book, Lessons in the Key of Life, to fit in at the very bottom, beneath all of the hand-made millinery.

          I hardly slept that night, so excited was I to see my beloved student again and bestow this gift that had brought me so many hours of joy in the making of it.

          When she arrived – and P.S., we were both sporting the identical shade of hot pink dresses – she saw me at once and rushed over to embrace me, long and tight, with gusto. Later, during the gift-opening portion of the party, when she opened the treasure box, the tears began streaming for us both. Ditto for many, many others in the room who knew us from way back when and what we’d shared all those years before as teacher and student.

          For some comic relief, she read pages thirty-five and thirty-six aloud from my book, because they were about her:

          One day, I was feeling glamorous and sophisticated as I swept into the dance studio, wearing my brand new, lipstick red hooded, woolen scarf.

          “Hey, Shelley,” said one of my little cherubs, “why are you wearing that towel on your head?”

          A quick glance in the mirrored wall straight ahead, and I realized that, yes indeed, I was NOT Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman after all. To my horror, I looked substantially more like Rocky Balboa.

          Another time, as everyone dressed at the end of class, one little dancer put her dress on over her leotard, folded her arms across her chest and said, “There! Now I don’t care if the boys lift up my dress; they won’t see anything.”

          “Yeah, why do boys do that anyway?” I asked, seeking enlightenment.

          Giving me a look of embarrassed disbelief, she exclaimed, “Because they think girls in short dresses want SEX!” The tone implied that someone my age really should know that by now. (She was four and had three teenage brothers.)

          At that point, it was not the hats and tutu and quilt, but our fellow party-goers who were in stitches. They absolutely howled, and in no time, everyone’s equilibrium was restored. Fun and joviality reigned supreme once again. It was one of those Perfect Moments of Life, memorable because they’re so rare, they’re nearly palpable.

          Today, I feel wealthy. Not in that Oh Boy, My 401K Is Killing It kind of way, but in the way that only a veteran educator, who’s been reunited with a beloved student, can.