My son, the Ballet Boy

My son has always danced. My God, he danced in the womb. (This is true; when I was pregnant the doctors couldn’t understand why I was losing so much weight. When they put my baby on a trace, they saw just how active he was. In 30 minutes he rested for just 18 seconds. The obstetrician said “If this baby doesn’t grow up to be a dancer, I’ll hang up my white coat.”) All his moves — even from being a very small child — have been balletic. He’s not shown much interest in street dance or modern or tap — but ballet transfixes him. And even though he was adamant from being tiny that he wanted to be a dancer, a dance teacher or a choreographer, he point blank refused to have ballet lessons.

“I’ll feel stupid. I’ll be the only boy. I don’t know what any of the steps are called.”
“Son, if you want to dance, you’ve kind of gotta have lessons.”
“Not yet, mum,” he said.

I danced when I was younger. My mother was a dance teacher, so dance is in his blood, in his body. I felt that rather than force him to go to a lesson, I’d wait and let things unfold. My worry was that if I pushed him too soon, he’d be put off. He had to feel ready. He had to be enthusiastic. He had to want to do it.

In July 2015 he did a music theatre workshop at his school. He’d loved watching The Next Step and had copied the male dancers…