Sweet dance moves

I’ve been so slack about writing lately. I figure there is some form of writer’s block holding me back, so here goes an attempt at moving past it.
If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know I have no shame when it comes to laying out personal struggles with faith and identity, but when it comes to the kids, I’m increasingly tight-lipped about what I write. Right now with summer upon us, they are my world, so there isn’t much else to share. Preschool ended a week ago, and kindergarten ends in another two weeks. I’m desperately trying to slow down time and not wish any of it away. We spend our hours in the yard and garden and at parks, and there isn’t much time for writing other than short shares here and there and a bombardment of photos. I tend to default towards humor, because it feels safe. It’s hard to be accused of either complaining or bragging when you toss out some self-deprecating statements and share how awkward your family is.

But the truth is, I’m smitten when these kids. I’m in awe of their growth over the past year and incredibly thankful for the love they share as brothers. These are the precious years when the innocence and lack of shame gets to be protected and carefully guided. For instance, we went to a beach music concert at North Hills, and my oldest was attempting to lift the youngest like a ballerina or figure skater, and simultaneously grabbed him under the arm and by the crotch. After this happened twice to chuckles around, I called him aside to redirect the dancing and why he shouldn’t keep doing it – not just because he was risking a busted noggin from a failed lift attempt. It was absolutely adorable and absolutely something I didn’t want him repeating on the playground at school. Of course, I didn’t want to crush him or shame him or make a big deal of it. He took it well and went on with his flying pirouettes.

They have confidence I have never possessed. Never ever would I have gotten up in front of the people gathered on the plaza to show my sweet, sweet dance moves, and especially not before the music had actually started. But that’s my boys. They feed off each other’s goofiness and energy. By the end of their performance, complete with twirls, leaps, the “crab dance”, and break dance floor spin, the band was playing and the middle and late aged women in cropped chinos and button-downs chased them off the dance floor with their synchronized, beer sloshing  rendition of the electric slide, not before the oldest got tripped over and left defeated in tears. I believe confidence only lasts until 6:45 in the evening or until someone with sweeter dance moves brings a dose of self-awareness.