Every now and then, our living room gets transformed into Studio 54. I DJ while my children dance around like the gawky white kids they are. [They obviously did not inherit their father’s dancing abilities, or did they? As, I’m told it was strongly suggested to his mother that she enroll her son in a professional dance school. Oh, how different my life would be if I were married to K-Fed. I digress…] Tonight was no exception. As the likes of One Republic, Bruno Mars and Maroon 5 pumped out rhythmic beats, these kids got down like James Brown. Or Steve Martin – you take your pick.
Halfway through a song my oldest piped up, “Mommy! You and Daddy need to dance! Dance I say!”
I made a feeble excuse, “Sure. Just as soon as this song ends. I can change the Pandora station to something more suitable and appropriate for Daddy and I to dance to.” In parental terms, this means: I need to put on something slower so not as to blow out my hip and pull numerous muscles. The song ended, and I quickly snatched up my iPhone to change Pandora’s Modern Male Station to my Pandora Motown Station.
Oh. My. God. What are the chances that of all the Motown Songs out there that Pandora should choose to pick “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gayeat this precise moment? I look at my husband. He looks at me. We meet up and bust out laughing over the kiddies shouting, “Dance, Mommy – Dance, Daddy!” We start slow dancing. This dance had none of the showmanship our children have come to love seeing. There were no dips, no twists, no spins. There was no intricate hand or foot movement as we rotated the dance floor. Instead, there was an inappropriate amount of hip grinding, neck kissing and whispered double entendres.
The freaks I gave birth to decided that this would be a good time to make a dance circle around us. They began chanting, “Love it! Kiss her! Love it! Kiss her!” Their father was happy to oblige. He kissed me, alright. I think I blushed. Cheers and clapping erupted in our living room. For a brief moment, I was thankful that I’ve shown my children what a happy loving married couple looks like – and hope they hold onto these memories that we never shy away from…and then I realized, well – if they hold onto those memories, quite possibly in about 15 years they will put two and two together and understand why they were rushed through their bath time routines and put to bed early tonight.
Shit. I owe the Therapy Jar five more dollars.
You may be investing here and there with the therapy jar, but it sounds like a fantastic family evening, to me!
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