The free summer concert season has begun… and so has the wild rumpus.
There’s something magical about watching kids dance. They don’t seem to care who’s watching or what they think. As the saying goes, they dance like no one’s watching.
Charlotte and Luke definitely love to dance. They’ve both got moves. Luke’s newest move is particularly entertaining. He slowly walks backward to the beat while making shooting/pointing motions with his hands and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth as if he’s concentrating intently (which he may be – walking backward isn’t easy for a two year, never mind the coordinated arm motions). The combined effect is fantastic. It’s his own version of the moonwalk, and it’s out of this world.
Charlotte’s newest dance move is also interesting. It looks as though she’s throwing her legs out of her hip sockets. (I said ‘interesting,’ I didn’t say it was pretty.)
They both will jump up to dance at the slightest provocation. I take great joy in their love of music and dancing, and I hope they never lose it.
I also hope that they never grow self-conscious about it. Luke in particular seems to have the type of personality where he might never care if people are watching him dance. In fact, he might revel in it. He may, like his father, love the glory of the spotlight.
Whenever Karen or I have gone to a wedding or dance, I’ve always preferred to be the first ones on the dance floor – there’s more room (and more attention). Karen, not so much. Me, I like to dance like EVERYBODY’s watching.
I came to terms with my physical awkwardness years ago. I’ve embraced it. I’d like to think I’ve got some moves myself (whether or not I actually do.)
A few years ago, pre-kids, Karen and I went out with some of her co-workers to a bar with a live band and dancing. Let’s just say I took control of the dance floor. I also took control of/borrowed a cow bell from the band. (I’ve been bringing ‘more cowbell’ since before ‘more cowbell’ became a catchphrase.)
The next day, Karen got an email from a co-worker saying how I was a regular John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever. That’s right. John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever.
It made my day. Nay, my week. Actually, I’m still basking in the afterglow. I’ve chosen to disregard the fact that the woman who admired my dancing happens to be deaf. Literally. I’m not joking. Deaf. She couldn’t hear the music to which I was dancing. At all.
I suppose in the land of the deaf, the man without rhythm can be John Travolta.
I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’
