Tonight was Ainsley's last dance lesson of the summer. At her dance studio, this means it was "observation night" and parent were invited to watch (and photograph.)
How cute were half a dozen 4- and 5-year-olds dancing in all-pink leotards and ballet skirts to Dora songs? Beyond cute. Precious. Beyond precious--imagine a field full of white baby bunnies washing their little furry faces with teeny little paws. Or a dozen little pink-velvet kitten noses. That's pretty close.
They did the five ballet positions. They stretched. They tumbled. They did plies and releves. They boogied. It was an intro class, so they covered a little bit of everything. And since their mommies were there, and cameras were rolling, they showed off and mugged for the cameras.
And how did Miss Ainsley do? Well, she's not terribly flexible. That's my genetics at work. But she did her ballet positions very well, and she appears to have something resembling rhythm. She is the second tallest in her class, even though she's one of the youngest, so in some of the exercises she resembled a newborn giraffe taking its first steps.
What struck me the most is how beautiful she is. Every mom thinks her daughters are gorgeous, but mine really is. She is so tall and thin and elegant-looking (until she tries to touch her toes) and has these big, brown doe-eyes and long black eye lashes. She broke my heart. I can't believe something that pretty has anything to do with me.
But then she sticks her tongue out every time she does something hard, and makes faces into the dance mirror, and gets the giggles when she can't do a front flip-over. Then I know she's mine.