My daughter has been sick again. She falls asleep watching cartoons in the afternoon, then wakes up inconsolable but refuses all medication. This afternoon, I was rocking her in the gliding rocker in my room, channel surfing for some entertainment suitable for us both. I happened upon “America’s Best Dance Crew,” a show I like to watch for the commentary by the judge “Lil Mama.” I can’t tell you exactly what she says or even how she says it, but I am mightily amused. She’s so un-housewife, so un-suburban.
Also? I like to watch the dancing. I could no sooner dance that I could dive to the ocean floor without an oxygen. I might not have been born without rhythm but what little ability I might have had was crushed out by a religion that believed that square dancing could send you straight to hell. So, I can clap in rhythm but dancing? Uh, no. Never. I am dance-impaired, much to my chagrin. (I cannot imagine purposely drawing attention to my body in motion, ever.)
Anyway, so the dancing began and my daughter turns her stinky-sick-breath face to me and said, “Mom, do you have any talents?”
And I said, rather lamely, “Well, I do play the piano and sing.”
I don’t think she was impressed. I cannot fly-kick or head-spin or shake my booty. (Wait? Did I just slip into a past decade of dance moves?)
When your kid has to ask if you have any talents, it might be time to hire a public relations expert to polish your image a bit. I’m not feeling the love.