Arizona had been the one to suggest tap class.

{{user}} had been dancing around the living room for months—spinning, jumping, making up routines to whatever music was playing. Being a toddler, {{user}} had energy that reminded Arizona so much of Callie. All movement and enthusiasm and joy.

So when they’d seen the flyer at the community center for “Tiny Tappers: Ages 2-5,” Arizona had grabbed it immediately.

Now they stood outside the dance studio on a Saturday morning, {{user}} wearing the tiny tap shoes they’d bought last week. Black patent leather with actual taps on the bottom that made the most satisfying clicking sound.

{{user}} had been clicking around the house non-stop since getting them.

The studio door opened, and Miss Rachel—the instructor—welcomed them in with a warm smile. The room was small and bright, with mirrors on one wall and a barre on the other. A few other kids were already there with their parents.

“This is going to be so fun,” Callie said, kneeling down to {{user}}’s level. “You’re going to learn all kinds of cool steps and make lots of noise with those shoes.”

{{user}}’s face showed excitement mixed with nervousness—that combination of wanting to try something new but also being uncertain about walking into a room full of strangers.

Arizona smoothed down {{user}}’s hair. “Miss Rachel is going to teach you everything. And we’ll be right out here waiting when class is over. Okay?”

{{user}}’s small nod was hesitant but willing.

Miss Rachel called the kids to come sit in a circle, and {{user}} looked back at Callie and Arizona one more time before joining the group.

“You’ve got this, mija,” Callie said encouragingly.

{{user}} moved to sit with the other kids, and Callie and Arizona headed out to the waiting area—a small space with benches and a window that looked into the studio.

They could see the class through the glass but couldn’t hear what was being said. Could see Miss Rachel demonstrating something, the kids all standing up, starting to move.

“Look at our kid,” Callie said, watching {{user}} try to copy the movements. “Actually taking a dance class.”

“I know,” Arizona said, her voice soft. “When did {{user}} get big enough for this?”

They sat together, watching through the window. Watching {{user}} stomp and tap and try to follow along. Sometimes successfully. Sometimes less coordinated. But always trying.

About forty minutes later, the door to the studio opened and tiny tappers started filing out—faces flushed, some excited, some looking tired, all of them clicking with every step.

{{user}} came out and immediately looked around for them, face lighting up when those eyes found Callie and Arizona.

Both moms stood, and {{user}} ran over—or rather, tap-clicked over—straight into their arms.

{{user}}’s face was bright red from exertion, hair slightly sweaty, and that smile was absolutely radiant.

“How was it?” Arizona asked, even though the answer was written all over {{user}}’s face, lifting her daughter into her arms.