Several weeks ago while walking in to pick up Drama from Dance class, I heard a few parents having a conversation in the corner while looking through the little window into the class. “No… I say 5.” “You think?  I’d put no more than 4.  I mean, look at her!” “She’s pretty coordinated, though.  One lady said she saw her registering for Sr. Kindergarten.  She’s gotta be at least close to 5.  Either way, she’s too young to be in this class.”. My heart sank a little and I got butterflies in my stomach.  Because I knew what they were talking about. They were guessing the age of my daughter. And they were angry.  Angry that their daughters were in the same class as someone so young.  As though their eventual scholarships to Julliard were hanging in the balance of this one pre-school age child that could hold their class back. Except she’s not preschool-age. She’s 7. And she’s been dancing for almost 5 years. So I stepped over to where they were, I looked through the window and I said “Are you talking about the little girl in the purple tank top?”.  (I resisted the urge, at this point, to say things like ‘the one NOT disturbingly dressed in hotpants and a completely functionless sportsbra like most of the others’.  Because that was not the point, that was only my judgement.) And when they said yes, I simply followed up with this. “She’s actually 7.  And I believe in the same grade as your little girl.” And…