Tiny Dancer

I took dance for all of two, maybe three, years as a young girl. I think I liked it fine, though I doubt I was any good, given my grown-up self who trips up the stairs at least once a week. But I do remember liking it, so while I am not one to rush kids into extracurriculars, I thought a one-week "fairytale ballet" dance class with her friends would be the perfect little summer treat for a little sister who has tagged along almost-willingly to session after session of her big brother's swim lessons and dinnertime soccer games.

This is all a long way of getting to this:

my girlie's first dance class.


Daring the fates of klutz and genetics to make a mockery of the world's sassiest and tiniest three-and-a-half year old, I signed little miss Nora up for a one-week dance class. Little did I know that when the flier said "ages 3-7," all the other girls would be twice Nora's size and in full ballet attire. Oh yeah, and they would all already know the basics of ballet terminology.

Fortunately, what she lacked in formal training, our tiny dancer made up for in style, and though she would cower when the group sashayed across the room (she really is tiny—probably felt like a mouse in an elephant stampede), she held her own and seemed to love dance class.

 

 

Especially the daily princess appearances.

Loved it, that is, until the recital, at which point she plunked down, a dead weight on my lap and impervious to ice cream bribes, content to watch rather than dance with her class.

Here she sat until the last 30 seconds of the show, when she whispered "Mama, why are all these grown-ups here?"

I told her they were there to see their little girls dance.

She then asked "Why are you and Daddy here?"

And I told her we were there to see her dance.

She responded, "Oh, okay!"

Then she stood up, turned to face the audience, pointed her toe, and the music stopped.

And though I expected to get chocked up on day one, when I first walked Nora into class—in case you haven't noticed I'm a sucker for milestones—I was pretty unaffected with the entire dance experience until that final chord of her non-dancing performance when she looked at me with a mix of nerves and pride, double-checking to ensure I was watching her. And as she pointed her toe and the music stopped, I smiled big with tears in my eyes, so grateful that this sweet little girl who dances to the beat of her own drum is mine.

(And his, too.)