My daughter, who is not yet 5, has begun taking a modern dance class.

On the first day, the über-flamboyant teacher, Ricardo, told me that parents are allowed to watch only the first class. “The children are too self-conscious if the parents are watching. This way, you’ll see how I run the class and then — out you go,” he said with a hand flourish in the direction of the class door.

Yahoo, I thought. There is nothing more painful than being expected, week after week, to ooh and aah over every little pirouette my daughter does at ballet. Right away, I am a fan of Ricardo and his no-parent policy.

The class begins and I get busy writing a long overdue condolence letter. By the time I look up and pay attention, Ricardo has already taught them a short routine.

“Wake me up, before you go, go,” the music blares as I see they’ve learned to bounce and jump and shake to the beat. Cute, I think, as I try to figure out how I, with two left feet, have produced a daughter who has decent rhythm.

A few minutes later, though, when I look up again, Kira is parading around the room with a pink parasol and top hat. She beams as she puts her accoutrements down and drops to the floor. She copies Ricardo, flat on her stomach with her head tilted back, knees bent, feet coquettishly pointed toward her tush. She diligently follows him as he kicks his legs back and forth. The girls look like flappers straight out of “Chicago.”

Or maybe they look like sluts, I begin to worry. Flappers or sluts? I’m not sure.

When I signed up for the class, I imagined Kira as a little Shirley Temple, singing, “It’s a Good Ship Lollypop.” But as I watch my daughter shake it to the music, she reminds me more of pop tart Britney Spears singing whatever Britney sings.

It doesn’t take long before my mind wanders to those creepy photographs of JonBenét Ramsey posing in beauty pageants, or to my favorite movie last year, “Little Miss Sunshine,” about a dysfunctional family that travels across the country to fulfill their 7-year-old daughter’s dream to participate in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.

When did a 4-year-old’s wiggle become anything more than a wiggle? Is this class flying in the face of my hope that I will raise a daughter who values modesty? Am I contributing to the over-sexualization of our country’s young girls, or am I reading too much into a fun, athletic, well-disciplined class that happens to be a perfect fit for my feminine daughter who loves to dance?

I’m not the only mother trying to figure out how to prevent her daughter from becoming one of those preadolescent nightmares who wants to wear thongs and lipstick at 9.

“I have three daughters that are 11, 9, and 6, and I am determined to keep them proper and innocent for as long as can,” one mother said. “But it’s harder when Disney keeps making half-dressed characters like Princess Jasmine and Ariel, and your daughters are trained to think they should look like a scantily dressed Bratz doll.”

“You can keep your house Bratz-free,” she added. “You can say no to MTV. But you can’t — as much as you might like to — lock them away for the next 20 years.”

While it’s hard to ignore the influence of Barbies and Bratz and Britney, one teacher at a co-ed private school said she feels that parents often play an underestimated role in enabling their daughters to be sexy years before their time.

“It’s not just that the parents are the ones ultimately buying their daughters inappropriate clothing,” the teacher said. “It’s also that the mothers themselves are dressing inappropriately. I can’t tell you how many pairs of racy underpants I see every day poking out of mothers’ pants. Some mothers spend so much time manicuring themselves that it’s not hard to figure out why their daughters become obsessed with their looks or weight.”

When I picked Kira up from school yesterday she wiggled her hips as she sang the familiar dance song, “I like to move it, move it.” I had to remind myself that a month ago she was also shaking her tush when I picked her up from school. Okay — she wasn’t singing, “I like to move it, move it.” But maybe next week she’ll be singing the Bee Gees or Aretha Franklin. At least I hope so.

sarasberman@aol.com