That's My Boy

When out-of-towners who haven’t seen Finny in a while ask what he’s up to, they always want to know, “Is he walking yet? Is he talking yet?” I wonder why they never think to ask, “Is he bustin’ out some sweet new moves on the dance floor yet?”

In case you’re wondering, yes, yes he is, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Walking and talking are certainly big deals and I don’t mean to minimize the excitement that surrounds these two events, but when I discovered this week that Finny really loves a beat he can dance to, I felt a small tear trickle down my cheek as I grabbed my heart and sighed, “That’s my boy.”

And then I turned up the volume on Billy Ocean’s “Loverboy” and jumped right in to join him.

Right now he’s got a couple signature moves, but everyday he seems to add to his repertoire and I’m quite certain that by Friday he’ll be doing The Roger Rabbit and maybe even a little Shopping Cart.

When I pick him up and twirl him around the carpet, he waves and twists his arm about in a move that seems to have some Eastern Bengali dance influences and makes me inclined to attach some small bells to the tops of his hands. In the case of our Billy Ocean dance, he waved his arm about while simultaneously singing, “Lover, lover, lover…” right along with Billy. It was nothing short of spectacular.

In the case of Dion’s “The Wanderer” or even just the introductory music to “Thomas and Friends” he kind of hunches over and side steps in a circle, almost like he’s flying solo for a round of Ring Around the Rosie.

Not only does he love to dance to any good beat that comes his way, not excluding cell phone rings and musical toys, but he also loves to exclaim outright what he’s doing by repeating “Dance, dance, dance” over and over again.

I first discovered his inner Billy Idol when I was in my bedroom and he was in his. Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” came on and I heard him saying “Dance, dance, dance.” Sure enough when I walked in the room, there he was, dancing with himself. It was like walking in on a two-foot-tall David and images of Finny in a tuxedo with a sweaty poof of hair and a screaming circle of fans swirled into my head.

The thing is: it’s contagious. I often complain about how unproductive I am these days chasing after a toddler. I can’t seem to unload the dishwasher in less than an hour, let alone clean a bathroom or vacuum the Cheerios off my car floor. And now that there’s dancing, well the chores will just have to wait. I can’t seem to resist a spontaneous dance party mid-afternoon, especially if Michael Jackson turns up on the eighties station. That is what we teachers refer to as “a teachable moment.” I mean you really have to time the crotch grab juuuust right. And I’m quite certain with my tiny dance prodigy, he’ll have that plus the moonwalk mastered by at least mid-June. I’ll keep you posted.