"Mommy, I want to dance," my daughter says, and begins to swing her hips back and forth, following the beat of the music playing on the radio. It is nearly 6:00 p.m. and we are at our local grocer picking up dinner. The store is crowded but my daughter is the only child there, and I silently hope she will behave.
She has been antsy since we walked in the door and wants to move. It has been a long day, and my body aches with the fatigue of keeping up with my three-year-old.
"Okay, let's dance," I respond as I grab her hands and move my own hips in the confined space, but this does not satisfy her.
"I want to be a ballerina," she asserts. "That's not a ballerina dance," she explains while pointing out my lack of rhythm and hesitation.
"We are in the middle of a store," I remind her. "Let's dance at home, in the living room. You can put on one of your princess dresses."
She ignores my suggestion and insists on taking up more space. She strips off her bulky winter jacket so she can move freely. I observe the way she jumps up and down, and her sneakers light up from the impact on the hard floor. Her arms and legs find their own rhythm, and her lips form a faint smile.
When I head over to the register, she puts her arms up in an arc over her head and closes her eyes. I am certain that she is imagining herself on stage in a glittery tutu.
The butcher comes out from behind the counter and begins to dance with her. I watch the way she orders him around, correcting his form. The other customers keep to the sides of the store, allowing plenty of room for the performance.
"You dance like this, with your arms up," she explains. The butcher follows her, dancing to her rhythm.
"It's time to go," I call out to her from the front of the store once I have paid for my groceries.
She turns to the butcher and says, "now you need to bow like a ballerina." She crosses one leg in front of the other and bends down to the ground. The butcher follows her lead into the awkward bow.
I smile, bigger than I have smiled all day.
"Beautiful dancing," I say to my daughter, as I coax her back into her pink jacket. She is out of breath with the exertion of her movement and the excitement of performing in the middle of a store.
I notice that the fatigue in my body has lifted. My daughter was beautiful to watch; I could have stayed right there all night long.
I hope she will always dance like this: free and uninhibited, taking up all of the space she needs and inspiring others to do the same.
"Keep dancing," I whisper to her as we walk out the door and I squeeze her hand. She looks up at me and nods. "I will Mommy." My heart swells as we walk to the car swinging our arms and humming a tune, with a slight sway in our hips.
This post initially appeared on Becky's Blog. Follow Becky on Facebook.