Dance class at last

It's been months (almost a year, really) since we first talked to L about the possibility of starting ballet once we got settled in our home. In the days that followed those early conversations L has borrowed every library book she could find that featured anything to do with ballet. She has carefully studied each rendering of the little girls in those pages, perfecting plies and grand jetes right along with them. She even chose a Boston Pops CD with Tchaikovsky's "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" on it so she could dance to the real music from the Nutcracker.

So, you can imagine L's delight when I announced the ballet and tap class for 3- to 4-year-olds would resume this week at the local dance academy. She was ready.

When the day finally arrived, L carefully laid out leotard, tights and bag, then insisted on taking a nap to be properly rested prior to the start of class that afternoon. L was so beside herself with anticipation, when we arrived at the studio, she urged me to please work quickly so she wouldn't be the last girl in the room when class began.

As soon as the teacher gathered the little girls to begin, L found herself a spot in the back row, carefully placed her toes on the star sticker she was assigned to and put forth her full mental and physical effort for the lesson. Despite the whimsical music and a very cheerful instructor, L worked her way through the entire lesson without cracking a single smile, taking her attention away from the directions only for quick glances up to the balcony to see if N, C and I were watching.

As I gazed upon her tiny form while she stomped and twirled, I could see her earnest deliberation over every movement. And in her own way, without smiles or squeals of delight like the others, L was feeling satisfied by her accomplishments. She was having the time of her life.

In that moment I was reminded of the chubby one-year-old she once was, spinning circles on the carousel atop papa's lap at the Jacksonville zoo with furrowed brow, tight lips and white knuckles. I thought the whirling ride had been to much for her, but on the contrary, when the motion halted, L showed her Papa the sign for more. She'd had the time of her life.

After the dance lesson, we ordered ballet slippers and signed up to come back for more next week. When L emerged from the studio, she nervously eyed the other girls as they removed their shoes and slipped them into pink and lavender backpacks. They were seasoned veterans to L and I could tell she studied their every move in hopes of achieving their level of prowess someday soon.

N and I couldn't wait to hear her review. Was she overwhelmed? Did she have any fun? Would she like to come back? She obliged to answer our questions. Yes, she liked class and the ladybug dance was the most fun, and that girl Natalie in her class was pretty nice and so was the teacher.

But it wasn't until later that evening that I really understood how important that class had been for L, who has been working so hard over the months to become a real dancer.

As we sat in the livingroom, sharing cheese and tortillas before bedtime, L, who was still wearing her tutu, paused and said simply: "It was a special day today that I got to dance."