I wouldn't say my daughter is taking ballet lessons so much as joining a culture. I had no idea that was going to happen when we signed her up at age six, all the way back when it was still okay to wear unds under your baby-blue leotard. No, the assimilation slowly crept up on me.

Beyond increasingly bigger parts in performances, taking more classes, going en point and being asked to join the company, there is a lifestyle that sucks the dancer into the ballet culture. It's one of buns and hair pins, toe shoes and leotards, sweat and sore feet, and car rides . . . lots and lots of car rides. I think Wee One loves life at the studio off the floor as much as on. I see her giggle with her friends, fix the newest bow in her hair and survey what the others have brought for snack. They appraise new skirts or tops and share tips on wearing hair nets, all while in the splits, bonding as only ballerinas can.

As the years go by, everything increases: the costs, the time commitment, the responsibility ("did you wash my tights?"). I know we're no different than other families who get wrapped up in soccer or swimming or the such. If I had to choose, I'd rather watch Wee One twirl in the family room while humming the Dance of the Sugarplum than have shin guards laying around the house or endure the constant smell of chlorine. For an obsession, at least it's a lovely one.