Part of aging is losing your give-a-damn. Amongst the grannies, the subject of dancing arises. Probably because every little thing requires a dance.
After pool time, I dance around the bathroom with a chocolate-covered pretzel for potty training GrandBear Number Three. I truly was that crazy Mémé (Do you have a special French name?) level of proud that she announced her intent, and off she went. When did I become so easy to please? In addition to the chocolate-covered pretzel, we danced. As we should.
If you were at Albertsons on Saturday, you may have witnessed GrandBear One finding a Hot Wheels Old Time Batman car. Thoughts of, “I’m Batman” invoked a warm feeling all over. GrandBear One already knows I lack the ability to say no. He danced a little in the grocery cart fashioned like a race car. His closed-eye move was catchy–yes, I joined in. Pfft. In the Albertson’s. Only a few people looked. Grandmas winked and smiled. Been there, done that.
Last week, babysitting GrandBear Six (yep, count ’em six) while Middle Chicken took an important meeting, dancing was required for a new song: Lisie (LeeSee) Cannoli, All Stuffed in Fluff. Because she is, after all, padded with arm and leg roll fluff. Rolls are better than cannolis, non?
GrandBear Number Two dances at the same studio as Middle and Baby Chicken back in the day. It’s a throwback to be there. Oddly grateful it’s no longer me slathering gel into their hair to create impossible ballet buns and purchasing tap shoes every six months. To just watch–pure j0y. As is their class rendition of Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini. One of the moms chirped, “I can’t believe they’re still doing this song.” Amen sister.
GrandBear Five is the smiliest girl. Watermelon on the menu, cut into tiny triangles, provides her the urge to dance. Take a bite, smile, do the food dance. You know it. When food is just that good, move a little in your seat. You can almost hear the song in your head. What kind of a Mémé would I be if I didn’t leap from my chair and move to the watermelon chorus in our heads?
GrandBear Four will be the life of the party. Preschool has already labeled him such. Dancing in general is part of his repertoire. Like all the happy people, he can be just walking along and feel the need. I get it, Little Bear.
Dancing falls under the same grandparent categories as eating candy in secret, buying whatever you want at Target, and drinking juice instead of water. It’s the prize we get for not eating our young.
Our reason for busting a move? We get none of the tough stuff. I don’t care if they whine. Your problem. Tantrum? That’s on you. Dancing? I got you, Little Ones.
