Puppy seems to be missing whatever gene it is that makes toddlers dance like maniacs to any music. Each week at library story time, as kids bounce spastically around the room like so much popcorn, Puppy sits back and silently observes. A wee anthropologist, attempting to understand the primal ritual unfolding before him.
Every so often T-Dog and I try to get him to dance at home. We demonstrate, dancing around the family room with wild abandon. Puppy just gives us withering looks, as if to say, "Big people, please, show some dignity."
Tonight we went to a local art festival, pushing Puppy through the booths in his little red stroller. After buying our dinner, we plopped down on a grassy hillside overlooking the main stage. A punk rock bluegrass band was playing, all mohawks, cowboy hats, fiddles and banjos. (It was as odd as it sounds.) Staring at the stage, Puppy strained at his stroller straps. As soon as he was free, he started bopping around, stamping his feet and waving his stubby arms to the music.
Puppy, the perpetual wallflower, was dancing. He danced and danced, grooving in circles around a nearby tree. It was so fun to watch. Even people sitting nearby looked over, smiling.
Apparently it wasn't that he doesn't dance, but that he has discriminating and rather eclectic tastes in music. I love this aspect of parenting, that just when you think you know something about your child, he surprises you.