Personality Test

In the broad spectrum of personalities, you have your Amy Winehouses, you have your Kate Middletons.  Can you guess at which end of the spectrum Little One lies?
Here are some hints.  I will first throw you off by telling you that She is a total Diva of the Living Room.  She has taken to pulling the bathroom stool into the middle of the room so that She has a stage for Her "shows", in which She sings into Her beloved microphone, tells "shtories", and makes general announcements to the household.  She also uses it for "tumble shows", in which we are all to watch Her- jump off the stool, and either "crash" or "splash" onto the floor, then pop up with Her arms in a victory V- and commence with the applause.
But.  The only thing Little One likes more than putting on these productions is actually attending "real shows".  She has made it through hours of sitting hushed in an auditorium and joyously watching performers, from music to ballet, and I've yet to take Her to one that outlasted Her interest, or that She didn't like.
Until.  Wednesday.  We went to a kids concert held in the atrium of our local movie theater, where a well-known local kids artist was going to cure the cabin-fever of pre-schoolers everywhere with songs, dancing, puppets, instruments, props, and the shaking out of sillies.  Sounds fun, right?  Right. But.  There was no stage or sound system, and before this poor woman in her silly pink pants had even made it through the first song, she was swarmed by the screaming masses.  She was drowned out by the roaring background noise of mommies (who were probably more excited than their kids to be the heck out of the house after all this bad weather) chatting with each other and paying NO attention whatsoever to their progeny.
The performer broke out in a sweat.  She began to take on the expression of a mouse being lowered into a snake terrarium.  She vainly appealed to the mommies to calm their children, or at least themselves.  Finally, she decided to ask the kids to come to the front, and the moms to fall back, so that the better-behaved two-year-olds could buffer her from the mother-mob.
Little One had been watching all of this, stone cold silent and still, with a little frown, from my lap.   When the segregation began, I sent Her up to the front, and She grudgingly complied, casting glances at me over Her shoulder.  She stood at the outside ring of screaming toddlers, clasped Her hands in front of Her, and gave the now-frantic performer Her full, expectant attention.
The singer strummed a guitar.  Something about duckies.  Mass hysteria.  The children, now fully released from any semblance of authority, moshed in anarchy.  The moms, taking the musical notes as a sign that this guitar-toting live bait was now fully responsible for taking their annoying offspring off their hands, began talking amongst themselves as loudly as possible, in order to hear one another over the noise of the guitar and the shrieking children.
Let me note that there were at least 50 kids under 3, and they were all maniacally thrilled with this raucous freedom.  All of them but one.
Little One cried.
It was a cry of surrender, of giving up. A cry with Her arms stretched up like a baby asking to be held.  The kind of cry for which I had to delve into the crowd and retrieve Her.  She told me in exasperation as we exited the building,
"Mommy, this show not so fun.  Can't hear it! Can't see show! And momma.  This kids drive me crazy!  Little One can't see mommy, can't see show, can't get out! Stuck!  Bit scary, Mommy. Drive me crazy."
Luckily, some of our friends had joined us at this scene of hysteria, and we all decided to escape for an activity much more to Little One's liking: we went shopping. And out to lunch.  
I guess She's not quite the moshing type. 
Little One was as happy as a clam the rest of the outing, having long conversations with Her friend Em about Dora the Explorer, holding hands and jumping in puddles with Em's big brother, and cooing adoringly at Em's baby brother.  She had a nice playdate in the afternoon at the nature center, and was in Her element serving pretend tea to our dinner guests.
Maybe in high school we'll be buying Her tickets to opera instead of rock concerts.  Then again.
Outside our lunch restaurant, the PA system was playing "She's lost that lovin' feeling".  As we left, the beat of the drums froze Her in Her tracks.  Her arms spread out wide, Her head tilted back.  The chorus flipped Her diva switch and She danced. She danced until people stopped walking to watch.  Until a random middle-aged man began dancing with Her.  Until I swooped Her up and waltzed Her out of earshot of the rhythm and we all laughed our way to the parking lot.  Maybe we won't be buying Her any concert tickets at all. Maybe we'll be going to Hers.