She is in constant movement, her body involuntarily marking a song’s beat whenever she hears music. She jumps down from the sofa, pushes her toys to one side and dances, getting lost in the connection between what she hears and her body’s movements.
She uses her whole body when she moves, like I was taught to do at dance camp as a child – but it’s not learned behaviour for her, it’s simply the way she is. Even her facial expressions are exaggerated – eyebrows raised, mouth open, hands to her cheeks.
I love watching her, because she does this not for attention or performance, but because she can’t not. She hasn’t learned self-consciousness yet (I futilely hope she never does); she doesn’t even think about dancing – she just does. She’s a true natural, so much that I sometimes wonder if her dance classes will squash her passion rather than nurture it.
This evening she stomped around the kitchen, her lips like a fish’s, waving her arms at her sides. “Look at me!” she cried, laughing. “Come on, Jake, follow me!”
“Are you being a robot?” asked her dad?
“No!” she replied, as if it were obvious. “I’m being a corn!”