She warmed up a little at home:
...and then rolled up to the studio looking every bit the pro:
...and then it was go time. Cute. Overload.
When it was all over and kids were barreling through the door into the arms of their parents, some overjoyed to be "official ballerinas" and some overjoyed to be back on the other side of the jail cell, E just sat quietly on the floor of the studio, her eyes resting expectantly on the instructor, no doubt hoping that the show might go on. Only when one of the assistants helped her up and turned her in my direction did she remember that I was even there. Most of the kids spent the 45 minutes stealing glances at their parents outside, running by the windows waving, or sobbing profusely and pleading for rescue, but not my kid. She stuck close by the instructors and soaked up every bit of tippy-toe action and plie science that she could get her chubby little legs around. And I almost died of bliss. I don't know if I remember my first dance class ever, but I remember fairly early on, and I remember what it felt to be in class every week and feel like it was just where I belonged, where I wanted to be. I'm going to do my best to keep reminding myself that this is her turn, and if there's a day when it's not fun anymore then she won't get any pressure from me to continue. But MAN it felt good to watch her loving something that I loved so much myself. And anyway, a mama can dream.