My daughter S. – Age 4 went to her first dance lesson this weekend.
We did the whole nine yards: bought the pink ballet shoes, tights and leotard; I even put her hair up in a bun for good measure, not knowing specifically what to expect.
I am not striving to be a dance mom. I never had dance lessons or even a single pair of ballet shoes. Mainly, because my kid seems kinda fascinated (if not, if I am honest, built for such things) with ballerinas and all things dance right now, I thought it would be fun for her and good exercise.
(Also her older cousin does it and she was totally jealous and I get that and don’t want her to feel left out. I am a sucker that way.)
Anyway. It was cute and sickeningly adorable to see all those little girls in their dance garb, trying to watch the teacher and raise their arms and point their toes.
My daughter was far more interested in using the dance bar as a monkey bar, climbing the mirror and trying to hang upside down. I felt a sick gush of pride at her skill, and grateful the bar didn’t come crashing down.
Even in that first class I did get exposed to some of the “dance mom” culture as they shouted “point your toes darling” to some of the girls and oohed and aaahed when their daughters did the right thing.
I refrained from rolling my eyes or saying “For God’s Sake they are FOUR!” Instead, I just smiled as my daughter galloped across the dance floor with a complete lack of delicacy and a giant smile on her face.
That’s what it is all about.
The Mischief of Minions 