I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of our glass door. Indeed, I was catching glimpses of myself in every glass option in our kitchen. The large windows over our sink, the side windows around the kitchen table, and the glass door that leads to our porch. I waved at my reflection, and it waved back. It was saying, bye bye implied privacy of being in your home - and then it waved back hello, your neighbors can see you...
And then my reflection went right back to its former activity - dancing like crazy to a little old school Madonna. As I shook my booty around my kitchen, I realized that I have very few moves. I have a few that I perfected in college - but they should have stayed on the stage at the Foundry instead of following me into my adulthood. The rest seem to involve me doing the famous white man's overbite while moving my dancing fingers and various other body parts around.
But, what kept my booty shaking despite the fact that my neighbors were calling the crazy patrol? My baby daughter sitting in her seat at the table dancing right along with me. Grinning - seriously - from ear to ear. A spoon in her hand, a spoon in her other hand, yogurt in her hair, and a huge silly grin - Moving her head from side to side.
So, I paused at the glimpse of me and had a conversation with myself (something I do quite often - if you're wondering). Here was the conversation. Is it unfair to model such bad dancing to a tiny baby who still stands a chance at being able to hold her own at a Bat Mitzvah party? Or, do I enjoy rocking out with my baby, trust that fun is the more important style, and just enjoy it?
For now, I say dance. When Madison's 13, I'm guessing she might vote for mom to take lessons...
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