Preschool at the Disco

Scene 1. The car. Mr3, in full pirate regalia, is excitedly counting down the minutes until the preschool disco begins. Mr6, who could not get his pirate belt to sit right and ended up throwing it across the room before we left, is sulking in his booster seat. As we drive, a little voice pipes up from the back: "Mum, don't forget to paint your lips. You must be BEAUTIFUL."

I exchange amused glances with The Builder before reaching into my bag for my lip gloss and obediently 'painting my lips'.

Scene 2. The dance floor. Mr3 and I are dancing. He is a dervish. I am Gulliver on a dance floor full of Lilliputians. Suddenly, he stops. And stops. And stops. I bend down. "Are you tired? Do you want to have a break?" (Please, please, please.) Big blue eyes look up at me. "No Mum, this is still a dance move." He points to his knee, which is wiggling slightly while the rest of him remains immobile. Talk about hip minimalism. "Right," I say. "Carry on."

I foresee a great future for him at the dance parties/raves/whatever of the future.

Scene 3. Home. Little arms around my neck. "Thanks for dancing with me at my disco," says a sleepy Mr3. I tuck him in and kiss him goodnight, thinking back on our shared Nutbush/Macarena/Chicken Dance experience. As we'd left the room where the disco was held, we'd run into a boy of about 12 who shrieked because we'd surprised him sneaking out of a door down the hall. A refugee from a sixth grade formal. "Oh," he said, panicked. "I thought you were my teacher. I'm hiding. She's trying to dance with us!" Like it was the worst torture his mind could conjure up.

A reminder to savour every minute of every dance move. No matter how minimalist.

{image: via steventoussaint.blogspot.com}