tiny moment, tiny dancer.

The other night my daughter was having a hard time going to sleep. I turned the stereo on with our sleepy time mixed CD, and picked her up to have an impromptu slow dance in the middle of her room. We had gone through a few songs, and though I could feel her starting to drift, I didn’t want to put her down. Tiny Dancer by Elton John clicked on, and her foot started tapping gently against my thigh as we swung back and forth. Then she dug her soft, sleepy face into my neck and sighed happily.

“Mama,” she whispered against my skin, “this music is like bells.”

I don’t want her to grow up.