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Shall We Dance?

“Shall we dance?
On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?
Shall we dance?
Shall we then say “Goodnight and mean “Goodbye”?
Or perchance,
When the last little star has left the sky,
Shall we still be together
With are arms around each other

Shall we dance?
Shall we dance?
Shall we Dance?”

Yesterday Simon had a play-date with Greta, a girl I’ve been admiring since she announced “Good morning, Simon. I made coffee!” at the age of just under two years. Greta is the tallest girl in Simon’s age group, one of the smartest, and has a larger-than-life personality that is hysterical to observe in a 4-year-old package.

The two had never gotten together to play one-on-one before, so I was curious to see how things would go. Our attempt to hit the pool failed pretty miserably, but lunch, watching Olivia, drawing, and free-play were a huge hit, with the best part coming at the very end. Greta was very much the cruise director of this play-date, and in the last hour, she announced that she and Simon were getting married. (Whereas Caroline asked to get married on their play-date, Greta informed. And if you are wondering why all the preschool girls are thinking about marriage, look no further than that tiny shindig in England this April.) Greta ran back into her room, changed into a yellow dress, came out, held Simon’s hand, and kissed him on the cheek.

Then it was off to the honeymoon, which she informed us was in Lexington. Now, Lexington is about an 80 minute drive from us, but Greta was determined to fly. So she and Simon had to hurry to put all their toys in suitcases for the big trip. And once they arrived at their destination, it was time for a romantic dance. Greta put on some traditional music, grabbed Simon’s hands, and began to dance with him.

At the beginning, Simon pretty much stood in one place while Greta yanked his arms and/or twirled around him. Before long, though, Simon was looking down at Greta’s feet, matching her steps, and extending his arm out to spin her. He really got it! And he loved every minute of it. We’re going to get together for a dance-based play-date again next week assuming I can scrounge up the right music.

I have to say that, whereas Simon’s baseball ability kind of shocks me, his love of dance makes total sense. I’ve never had the balance or flexibility to be a real dancer, but I love ballroom and folk dance and always have. Simon first showed signs of being the same before he was born: about a month before my due date, he kicked me non-stop during during every musical number at a performance of My Fair Lady. He was also the only toddler boy willing to dance in the Itsies; I still remember him “raising the roof” with his hands to dance music at a San Francisco restaurant when he was about seven months old; and just last week he started to bounce in his booster seat when a new, all-female bluegrass came on the radio. “Who are they, Mama?” he asked. “Can we buy their music?”

It’s a shame cotillion isn’t for another eight years. Boyfriend is ready.

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