Dance, Dance

We've discovered a slam-dunk, guaranteed baby laugh generator. When we want a laugh, we know exactly what's required of us: to dance around the kitchen like fools.

It can't be a cool dance like you might do at a club, or when you're whoopin' it up on girls night. No - it has to be something which might most closely resemble a drunk Bill Cosby impression. Our arsenal of acceptable dances include: The Molly Ringwald, The Running Man, The Sprinkler, The Shopping Cart, The Cowboy with Lasso, and White Woman's Crunk.

This all started when Livi discovered the boundless joy of her Fisher Price Rainforest Jumper. We would put her in it and giggle as her feet barely touched the ground (but just enough so she could do a darn good River Dance performance). As she discovered the wonders of bouncing, we would jump up and down and say, "Dance, dance Livi!!!!" Her smile would beam from ear to ear, and the harder we jumped, the more she bounced, and voila - stupid parents dancing.

We have to be careful to make sure the blinds are shut when the dancing occurs. We live on a pretty busy street, and I fear what passersby might think if they saw my husband and I feverishly waving our hands in the air and kicking our legs out like we were auditioning for the Rockettes. We might look like hippies on a bad trip, or worse yet, like parents who had just totally lost it.

What's really humbling about the whole thing is not necessarily that I look like an idiot when I dance; but, that it's a major workout. A few laps around the Jumperoo doing the Moonwalk or the Running Man and I'm panting like I've just ran a 50 yard dash at world record pace. For a Mother who used to be a soccer player, runner, and personal trainer, that hits the ego with a thud.

For now, we'll enjoy our dances with Livi. Before long she'll be a teenager, and there may not be a single thing in the world that we can do to crack a smile (other than buy her a BMW). I think I'll soak up the laughter while it's plentiful.