The Little Miss likes to dance.

When I’m watching Dance! Show!, she gets up in front of the TV to do spins and leaps and poses, asking if she’s a better dancer than the ones in the show.

(She is.)

When music is playing, she can’t resist swaying her hips, taking a few kicks, rolling on the ground and pointing her toes in the air. She asks if she’s the best dancer ever.

(She is.)

This spring we enrolled her in Twinkle Toes, a city-run program that is an introduction to ballet. She wore her pink tutu, a costume from the toy store. She pranced and skipped and marched with pointed toes. She was terribly disappointed that there wasn’t any twirling involved.

She told us she wants to be a ballerina.

I have to admit that the world of ballet lessons scares me. I envision a strict environment, with a barking, snapping teacher wielding a stick and bright red lipstick. A bored piano player rolling her eyes as the girls, dressed identically with their tight buns, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

But she loves it. And she’s the best dancer ever. It’d be a shame to deny the world.

So we’ve enrolled her in dance classes for the fall. At a real ballet school. Complete with buns, and uniforms.

(Jury is still out on the red lipstick.)

This past weekend I bought her a used pair of pink ballet slippers. At another store, we found the black leotard she needs to wear. No shorts, no sweatshirts, no socks allowed.

We tried on the leotard, to make sure of the size. She whispered to me, it makes me feel like a SUPERSTAR.

She pranced up and down before the mirror. She didn’t want to take it off. She wore it all day.

She’s my best dancer ever.

This post is part of Brie’s Monday Moments series over at Capital Mom. This week’s theme is dancing.