Month: March 2014

Dancing Queen

Fond moments fill my tattered cerebral memory box labelled “the lifetime before my very own high heels and mascara”. I dust off an old favorite from deep inside, clearing a vision of my mama cranking Abba as we danced like superstars around the living room of our old house trailer. An 80’s brownish, or greenish, shaggy type carpet became our makeshift stage on this warm Texas afternoon.

My mom danced.
My little 7-year-old heart leapt.

(I’m certain time is rather skewed in this particular memory box since I seem to be aged 7 years in every recollection.)

I gaze up at her, golden blonde hair glistening in the sunlight that clamors through the window to join us as we brought the rhythms to life. I don’t recall if we were alone, but in my mind, this scene belongs entirely to us. In a chapter of our story that was not always abounding in joy, these moments fell on my heart like a fresh spring rain quenching the desperate thirst of winter weary foliage.
Her laughter … Oh, how I drank it in.

In that instant, we were silly and I loved her for it. Nothing shackled us while those happy notes flowed through our hair, brushing our ears to ward away all worries for that brief time. Twirling and swaying, her slender frame spoke the words the music intended to convey.
An angel in acid wash jeans.
These rare candid moments ignited in me a lifelong love of dance.

Fast forward a billion years and 20 lifetimes to last night, my boy cranks some 80’s metal in the car to liven up our long journey home. Grey leather seats set a new stage, air band of awesomeness ensues. My wicked cool drum skills on the steering wheel complementing his deftly moving fingers on invisible guitar strings. He lip syncs the lyrics as I belt them with passion, no holds barred.

All the while my brain observes, permanently sketching that golden hair, sparkling eyes… The laughter … The silly that I love him for. For a boy that has admitted embarrassment by his own mama’s dancing around the living room, we still move in sync to our own type of waltz.

Though my G may not find these moments as cherished as I, each air band session with my son is as rare and splendid to my soul as those afternoon dance parties with my mom.

Today I will tuck both those memories, though eons apart, side by side in a new box labelled “coolest moms ever – the musical”

Float Like A Butterfly, Sting Like A Teen

It’s a bit of a blow to one’s youthful pride when your child begins to poke fun at signs of your imminent death (ok, just that you’re getting old), yet last night’s wound was soothed with the salve of delight that cleverness is increasingly abundant in my G. The 45 minute journey home through the winter woods often breeds excellent family bonding. Last night was date night, and after collecting the boys to head home, I was particularly jovial and lively on our trek.
Amidst my singing and goofy outpourings, my eldest spouts from the back seat, “Mom, what did you have to drink?”

Shocked, my initial response is laughter at what must be running through his mind…perhaps it was a touch maniacal, but I managed a “Water. Why do you ask?”

Eyes rolling I’m sure (yes, he is exhibiting signs of the teen species), he says “You are not acting like yourself”

Doubly shocked, since everyone that truly knows me has experienced, also with occasional rolling eyes, my unwavering ridiculousness and love of laughter, I reply in complete confusion now… “What?! When am I not like this??”

There in the darkness of the back seat I, now in hindsight, envision a slow smirk as the 10 year old sets up for delivery. Without even a chance to brace myself, the blow crushes the jaw of my pride with no warning … “Anytime after 8PM”

With my dignity out cold, mom-joy steps in to shake the hand of the crafty opponent.

Well-played, boy. Well-played.