We are blessed, my husband and I, with a gregarious child. While other children hung back and shuffled their feet on the first day of kindergarten, she marched up and took her place at the front of the line. When we have friends over, it's all our five-year-old can do to hold off for a few minutes before racing off to her room to change into a fairy princess costume. She emerges, beaming, accepting compliments graciously -- and demanding them from those ingrates who fail to notice her transformation.

No shrinking violet, our girl.

We encourage this sort of behavior - so long as it doesn't get too obnoxious - by letting Grandma treat her to ballet lessons and drama classes, by not letting on that her heartfelt renditions of her favorite songs are unfailingly off-key, by telling her that with hard work, she can be anything she wants to be. (Except, perhaps, on-key.)

So it serves us right that now she wants to be in the school talent show. This is a big deal, in front of an auditorium full of people. Ideally, talent will be involved, a requirement that left us scratching our heads, until she announced that she would do a ballet solo. For weeks, her wee ballet class has been practicing a routine that they'll be performing, en masse, at an upcoming recital. So to her, it made perfect sense that she'd just do that dance. By herself. On stage. In front of an audience. Gulp. I'm already terrified for her.

But our daughter doesn't know the meaning of stage fright. She does understand that she'll have to try out to win a spot, and that it's possible - although remote, in her eyes - that she won't be asked to be in the show. (Of course, if that happens, I'll have to kill the drama teacher, which would result in serious prison time.) But this is elementary school, not a Fox TV special, and she'll most likely get her time in the spotlight, and the audience will probably applaud even if she falls smack on her face in the middle of a grand jeté.

Still, I worry. I fret that some unkind child will laugh at her. I ponder the possibility that she'll want a career in show business. I wonder if I'm warping her by rushing her off to dance class on Saturday mornings when her peers are happily eating Froot Loops and watching "Spongebob Squarepants." I shudder at the possibility that I'll wake up one day and discover that I've become a stage mother without even noticing, that I'll think it's normal for a young child to dress up like a Las Vegas showgirl and strut her stuff on stage.

But then I snap back to reality and realize that we're not quite there yet. One of the newest members of my monthly book club is a lovely young woman who, it turns out, was in a ballet company for a short time. She has gorgeous posture, and the sort of unconscious grace that's impossible to imitate, at least for those of us who dropped out of dance when the siren call of lazy Saturdays got too loud to ignore.

I asked her what stayed with her from the years of practice, and she didn't have to think about the answer: "Discipline," she explained with a serene smile. "I know that if I work hard enough, I can do anything. Dance gave me that." And for a moment, I felt at peace. As if maybe, just maybe, I'm doing the right thing by hectoring my daughter to hurry up, get into her dance clothes, get cracking young lady, or you're going to be late.

Of course, it helps that my daughter loves the very idea of being on stage, of having all eyes on her, and at five, she already understands that not everybody can be the best. But being wildly competitive, she's determined that one day she will be Clara, dancing with her Nutcracker Prince, with the spotlight following her every move. Until that day comes, she's content to do her solo at the school talent show, 45 seconds of heart-stopping terror for Mom, an exhilarating rush for her.

I can hardly wait until it's over.