One, Two

I have always loved dancing. Most often in the mirror. Watching myself. Imagining an audience. Adjusting to different beats. Exhilarated by freedom.

Pregnant, I danced with Langston inside me. Hips wide. Arms cradling my belly. He and I, swaying low, full-figure eighths.

Then he came. And I carried him.

Too big for my arms, I brought him to my hip and kept dancing. Ever the adventurer, he squirmed for freedom.

So I put him on top of my feet. Held his hands.

It was easy at first. His feet fit snug on top of my toes. I led. He laughed.

But he grew.

He began to slip. Craving his own footing.

He needed both feet on the floor.

I protested. But he was too heavy to carry.

So we adjusted.

A simple one, two. One, two.

It worked, until it didn't.

He wanted to add to the dance. To improvise. To break the pattern.

Unsure what to do with the child who didn't want to follow my steps, I went looking for instruction.

A dance teacher. How to teach without stiffling him.

He scuffs the shoes I stayed up polishing. Dances in his own timing. The steps I want to teach are more complicated.

Will he ever learn?

If I correct too much, will he stop?

I practiced this dance for years. Adjusted. Corrected. Learned restraint.

But he wants his own wild rhythm. And I don't always recognize the music.

I remember when I rebelled against my mother's dance. Defiantly did my own. Ran into people. Bruised myself.

Eventually, I found the way I move best.

I took a little of hers. A little of mine.

Maybe this is his turn.

It's hard to let go of my little dance partner. To trust he can feel the beat on his own and find the dance that belongs to him.

See you next week. 🥂