Tiny Dancer comes on Pandora. I call out to my daughter, “This is you. You’re my tiny dancer. This is my song for you!” The verse continues, and I sing louder and look at her as Elton sings “Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand.” She smiles. On the verse goes, and she goes about her business. She may be dancing, she may be playing. But as the song begins to crescendo to the chorus, I run to her as I’ve done dozens of times before, pick her up in my arms, and sing to her, “When I say softly, slowly…” I hold her closer to my chest and she rests her head on my shoulder. I sing again, “Hold me closer tiny dancer…” and we sway and dance around the kitchen as if we’re all alone in our own little world.
When the chorus ends, she leans back and smiles, “You should sing that at bedtime.” I pull in her again, kiss the top of her head and say, “Of course sweetie.” And that night I do. The lyrics weren’t quite all there, but my daughter still delighted in the song anyway, and I cherished the special time spent singing the song to her. As I was laying her into her bed, she softly whispers to me. “Maybe you should dream of the song tonight so you can learn the words a little better.” I’ll do that little one.