Sometimes, as the evening gently settles after dinner, once the last strands of spaghetti have been happily devoured and the greens have been coaxed into little bellies, I give my children the look.
It’s a silent signal, a knowing glance that passes between us. Their eyes meet mine, and instantly, they understand. Chairs are pushed back, little legs stretch out, and together we clear the dining room, moving the table to the edge, creating an open space for the joyous ritual we all anticipate.
“Alexa, initiate the post-dinner Dance Party Dance playlist.”
Almost instantly, the iconic, booming voice of Martha Wash fills the air, a sonic wave of energy washing over us.
Everybody dance now!
The electrifying pulse of the keyboard and the rhythmic beat of the drums collide in the center of our home, a vibrant clash of sound staking claim to our kitchen. And just like that, the jumping begins. My daughter, a whirlwind of untamed energy, flings her arms and legs in every direction, a wonderfully off-beat octopus, her hands playfully swatting at the air as if guarding her own dance sanctuary.
I turn to see my son, lost in his own world of movement, embodying a robot… or perhaps being playfully consumed by one… or maybe he’s simply a boy in peanut butter pajamas transported to a dimension ruled by robotic dance. Whatever it is, there’s definitely a robot involved in this dance party dance scenario.
My children, in their innocent, uncoordinated charm, haven’t quite grasped the art of clapping on beats 2 and 4. I can’t help but laugh, a mix of amusement and gentle cringe, as their small hands create a delightfully chaotic rhythm around the actual music.
Midway through our favorite song, everyone is airborne, swept up in the sheer ecstasy of the moment. Suddenly, I find myself surrendering to the rhythm, lowering myself to the ground, and attempting to convince my aging body that yes, now is the perfect time to unleash “the worm.”
Seeing their dad in full-worm mode sends my children into fits of delighted giggles. Their eyes widen with possibility, and it’s clear they interpret my move as an invitation, a joyous call to adventure. In an instant, they’re scrambling onto my back. And so there we are, this peculiar trio, this unlikely ensemble; a robot and an octopus joyfully riding the back of a worm who will most certainly be reaching for pain relief before bedtime.
Just then, their mother walks through the door. She steps into a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos: screams of laughter, music blasting, the rhythmic percussion vibrating through the walls. She looks down at us, a curious expression on her face, and we, in our sweaty, joyful disarray, offer her the only explanation needed: an enthusiastic invitation to join our dance party dance.
