Dad dancers are born, not made

On Friday night, I found myself at the School Disco. Last year, Mr6 (then a nervous nellie kindy type) didn’t want a bar of it. This year, he was planning his outfit three days in advance. Of course, there’s no show without Mr3, who insisted on not only coming along, but bringing his blue ukelele with him. He's a man with an eye for an accessory.

So we get there and it’s loud. You know you’re, um, mature, when the primary school disco is deafening. Mr6 did his usual sidle into the room, looking left and right, laying out the land before deciding whether he’d stay. Mr3 marched into the centre of the dancefloor, strumming the uke, and serenading everyone in sight.

The hall was full of people who would not make the height requirement in most amusement parks. They were jumping, screaming, waving their hands, shaking their glow sticks. I began to understand how Gulliver felt.

Outfits ranged from cool Indy rocker girl (1) to Bratz Doll (lots). One little girl, about 5, even had a full hair extension piece. The boys were dressed in 1000 variations of jeans and sneakers. Pretty much what you’d expect at any Nite Spot.

Mr6 was taken in hand by his friend Miss E, dragged into a game of dance tip, which seemed to involve him chasing her all over the floor in a dancey sort of way. She was all Video Hits moves, in leggings and sparkly headband. He is a Dad dancer. At 6. But at least he was dancing. One of about seven boys who were. If I can just get the old man moves out of his repertoire, he’ll be unstoppable with the girls at 13. But then, he won’t be dancing by then, will he?

The most popular songs of the night were what I can only assume were tracks from High School Musical. I say assume because, not having an eight-year-old girl, I’m unfamiliar with the soundtrack. But every girl on the floor was word- and move-perfect. It was like being in the film, only not as slick and with no boys. The boys who were still having a go simply jumped up and down or performed home-taught breakdance moves that often ended in spectacular, bumpy failure.

The other song that ‘went off’ (as we young, disco-types like to say) was Beyonce’s Single Ladies. Interesting choice for a catholic primary school disco, but not out of the realm when you consider the ‘if you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it’ chorus.

By 7pm we’d been there an hour and both the boys were over it. Me, I was just getting started. But mums don’t dance at primary school discos, some unwritten rule or something. Except just once when Mr6 boogied on over in his Dad fashion and asked me for a dance. I took him up on it. It might be the last time he ever wants to shake his booty anywhere in my vicinity.