Your Mama Don’t Dance

One of my favorite things to do early on weekend mornings, waiting for The Husband to return from his morning jog, is to put on some fun music REALLY LOUD and dance with the kids.  This is always a hoot.  Elise does some of her beginner “combination dance” moves –a mixture of wild turns and jump/skip/hop things. Luke does a mean slow knee bend and occasional torso twists.

And I…uh…”dance.”

Believe it or not, I used to dance.  I mean, I took jazz and ballet classes as a kid, even competed on a dance team and choreographed. Later, in my twenties, I’d hit the dance clubs and WORK. IT. 

Although, you could never tell it now.

Muscle memory? Total lie.

Somehow, all of my awesome dance moves just up and left the premises.

Now, when I dance with my kids, I look like either I am slightly off from getting struck by lightning one too many times or possibly suffering from some spastic neurologic disorder.  The coolness I once had? Gone. The phat skillz? Poof! Up in a puff of smoke! Instead, I find myself launching into depraved versions of the Running Man, the Grapevine (a la 1990s aerobics), the Swim and, oh yes, THE ROBOT. I swear to God I do The Robot. 

Of course, these very current and hot moves are always accompanied by my “dance face” that is one part insanity, one part spaz, and two parts rabid muskrat.

The end result is pure comedy. Elise is usually in stitches from watching her Mama look absolutely ridiculous. Luke is usually delighted to be joining in on the fun with his slow turning squatting circles (and only occasionally terrified when Mama tries to do hip-hop).

And by the end of the second song, we are all huffing and puffing and laughing as I fall onto the couch, about to pass out from my complete and utter lack of regular aerobic conditioning.

I’ve realized that I will probably never be that cool dancer I once was. But, I get the feeling my audience couldn’t care less. For now.