Dancing In the Kitchen

I grew up watching My Mama dance.

Daddy still has the same turntable stereo on which we listened to records.  Sometimes Mama and Daddy would dance together.  Sometimes Mama would dance with us.  And sometimes, Mama would dance alone while we watched, smiling and laughing.

Now, my girlies and I dance.  We’ve done so for years.  We’ll turn up the stereo till the neighbors can hear and dance till we sweat and our muscles are sore.  We dance to anything – classical, rock, pop, Latino, you name it.  We just dance. 

We dance ballet, ballroom, interpretive, and group (think: Ring Around the Rosie).  Sometimes I hold them in my arms with their cheek to mine and we spin in circles and dip deeply, smiles pressing into our cheeks.  Sometimes we sautée and arabesque and practice graceful arms and fingers as we tendu or relevé.

Other times, I dance alone.  I dance while I cook dinner, set the table, wash dishes.  I dance while they bathe.  I dance and I sing and I am happy.

I know one day my girlies will look at me and laugh, just like we laughed with My Mama.  Then one day, I will dance alone, with no one there to see.  And finally, there will come a day when they, too, will dance with their babies.  Then, at last, they will know just how happy I was when I danced with them.