On Mondays, dance days, I try to keep you down and low-key as long as possible in the afternoon. Today you watch a Sesame Street video while silently sucking your fingers beside me. I try to sleep and feel like I could drift away into hours of rest.

Half an hour before class I rouse you from your dream-watching, enticing you to full awake status with brand new dance tights and a long-sleeved black leotard. You are alert almost immediately and jump eagerly on my bed while I attempt to catch your active toes in the sleeves of white. You pause only momentarily to point your toes—dancers know how to do that after all—then lose all focus with your giddy excitement. The tights are up, the leotard squeezed into and the hunt begins for your ballet slippers. We run to the kitchen for a quick snack of chips and juice, dinner will have to wait until after the oddly meal-timed class is over. You spill the small bowl, I envision cheese powder all over your outfit and give a warning to be careful. Hair pulled up into a bun on the top of your head, bright pink clip in place. You slip on your sneakers, take one last gulp of juice and out the door we go. Without ballet slippers. Once I’ve run back in to get them, we’re on our way across the street and down the block to the old brick building at 8th & D Streets. You bend to the sidewalk and pick up a wrinkled leaf, spotted with caterpillar eggs. It is my treasure to hold and save while you’re at dance. Before we even walk in I know we’ll be greeted by tired moms waiting on the stairs, young toddlers with sticky faces climbing and playing and grabbing legs. We greet our friends, you telling me how much you LOVE Pete and Elsie, and I pull up your tights one final time.

The door opens. You walk in with the others, ready for class to begin. I give one final admonition to be a “good girl” and you nodded with affirmation, as though you never would consider behaving otherwise.

In less than 45 minutes you’ll be at my side again, walking home hand in hand, my adorable ballerina girl. I love you now and forever.

(This is my snapshot of Livia at age 4.)