DANCE WITH ME
Last spring Monkey Boy bounced into the kitchen wearing brown and white shorts, a too-small greyish brown tee with a dinosaur crossing Abbey Road on it, a brightly colored green sock and a blue striped sock, and his new-ish sneakers. I did a double take. He then put on his yellow Monster stocking cap with purple ear covers. His outfit surprised me. Not one bit of it matched.
And just as I was about to comment on his outfit, as non-judgy as possible, he did dress himself for school, after all, Monkey Boy said, “Hey guys, I want to show you some dance steps.” And he broke into some high-stepping, fancy footwork that ended with a few interesting side kicks and arm thrusts that looked somewhat like a wild donkey attempting to take flight. “Whadya think? I learned it from my teacher.”
“Dance teacher?” B asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No, my music teacher,” Monkey Boy replied with a smile.
“Oh,” the Girl and B replied together, “your music teacher.”
“It’s for our year-end show in a few weeks,” Monkey Boy stated.
“I can’t wait to see that,” B said.
I pressed my lips together tightly to suppress a giggle and then said, “I want to see your dance again.”
“Okay!” He started all over again, yet this time in the middle of the routine, he tripped himself doing the crisscross grapevine and fell sideways on the floor. He popped back up and kept going. He ended with the same Broadway chorus line knee kicks with downward arms thrusts leaning backward to punctuate the move.
I suppose it’s no secret that the kids get their coordination from me. It’s true. I am not very coordinated. I can type and cook and drive and do all the basic moves to transport myself from one place to another. I can climb stairs and play video games and of course, pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time. I was even in marching band one year in high school. I played clarinet and marched—at the same time. But if you ask me to bust-a-move, that’s where my coordination begins to break down. I used to be able to do the Cabbage Patch. B says no. I used to be able to Moonwalk, too.
Just the other night, when I was fixing dinner, Monkey Boy came into the kitchen walking backward. “Look, Momma, I’m moonwalking.” No, he was just walking backward bumping into things as he went. Then the Girl tried to bust-a-move with the Floss dance. Yup, they got all that from me.
Funny thing, B is usually taking responsibility for the kids and their goofy ways. It’s no secret that Monkey takes so much after his father.
This morning in the middle of the kitchen dance show, I looked at B and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He laughed and said, “He did get that from you.”
And you should have seen the year-end show. I recorded the whole thing but can never show anyone because of my laughter…and tears. The tears weren’t because of his dancing skills, they were because he was out there doing it with passion. And he’s so animated and so much fun to watch. And that was beautiful.
But there’s so much more. There’s a whole chapter in my new book about cartwheels, risk-taking, and hip hop dancing or rather our attempts at doing so. The book comes out in one month on Amazon. Everyday Ordinary: (Mostly) True Confessions of Marriage, Shoe Shopping and How I Keep Losing the Mother of the Year Award. Check it out HERE.