For the last year and a half, my youngest, Wilder, has been learning how to bop with the beat in a weekly dance class. I signed him up for Dance Project’s “Little Rhythms” after a friend casually mentioned that her son had been going and enjoyed it. My own glory days of ballet and tap, which I took until I hit middle school, twirled around in my head. No, I wasn’t the most graceful, but dance is about so much more than that. Plus, to be honest, when I learned that there was no commitment to a recital — you could opt in or opt out — I was stoked. I’d sashayed down that path once before with my daughter and had zero desire to be a “Dance Mom.”

And yet, here I am among other parents, sitting on a bench just outside a mirrored studio while our kiddos move and groove, doing their best to follow their instructor’s lead. Occasionally, I peer in and catch a glimpse of my kindergartener. Is he doing the correct moves? No. But is he having fun? One hundred percent, yes. His cobalt Nikes are flying off the beat and he’s struggling to get the steps right, but his blue eyes reflect the absolute joy he’s finding in movement.

As class progresses week after week and the recital approaches, the question of the performance arrises.

“I just want to watch,” he replies assuredly.

Then, with just a couple of weeks until curtain call, costumes arrive. I haven’t ordered one for Wilder, but, as it turns out, one happens to be there with his name on it.

It could be, perhaps, that he just wants the thrill of dressing up in something fun, but I can see a thought flicker across his little face — he is reconsidering. If we are going to commit to this show, I want utter certainty.

“You know, it means you’ll be dancing on stage in front of the audience. I’ve seen your moves and I know you are a fantastic dancer,” I say, “but I want you to do it because you want to. Are you sure?” He is.

The day arrives and he seems to have absolutely zero pre-show jitters. Frankly, I am in awe. My own heart races as I recall my own dance recital nerves.

Backstage, I kiss him good-bye and leave him in the capable hands of a dance parent volunteer. I take my seat in the audience, surrounded by my parents, my husband, Chris, and my daughter, Emmy.

Finally, Wilder’s class enters from stage right as the backdrop glows in Aladdin-blue. A beat drops as the song starts: You know it’s Will Smith and DJ Khaled! With a little guidance from their teacher, the kids spend the next minute and 20 seconds strutting their stuff to “Friend Like Me.” As the crowd erupts in cheers, I wipe a tear from my eye because seeing my child doing something he loves has made me so uncontainably happy.

As the show comes to an end and all performers return to stage for their final bows, Wilder leads his class out and continues to freestyle until the very end. I know, with certainty, that we’ll be back for dance class in the fall.

So once again, I find myself on that bench, peering in the window of that studio space. Just next to it is a blackboard with neon chalk writing that catches my eye: “Sign up for adult classes!” I glance back through the window. Wilder’s elbows and feet are all over, but his smile stays put. And I think, Why not me?

Back at home, I log onto my computer and register for “Absolute Beginner Adult Ballet.” Sure, I’ve got experience, but that was 40 years ago. At my very first class, I slide peachy-pink ballet slippers onto my feet and find my place along the barre with several other women of all ages. At 46, I still lack grace and coordination, but, as I’ve learned from Wilder, talent is not a prerequisite for enjoyment. The music starts — a piano cover of ABBA’s “Super Trouper” — and I plié, tendu and jeté. Turns out, I am not a dance mom. I am a dancing mom.