Dancing

I have this nifty little speaker that connects to my smart phone via bluetooth that Eric got me for my birthday a few years ago. I have a few favorite Pandora stations and like to blast them while I get my cooking or dishwashing on. Speaking of dishwashing, our dishwasher broke last week so we are back to the extremely time consuming hands-on approach. And the paper plates. Let's not forget about those handy little guys.

Lexi is sick today, so I used the morning to make a new batch of granola with Kia. I had music going as usual and was dancing along as we whip-whip-stirred (Star Wars Christmas Special reference. Don't ask.).

I took my lanky four-year-old Kia in my arms and spun her around to the beat, her giggles filling up the room and my heart. My love for her is still new, still tender and raw in places, but it's there. And it's growing.

"Look into my eyes," I said, "and remember This. When you are an adult, and you're feeling sad, just turn on some music and dance in the kitchen."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it makes you feel better. Dancing in the kitchen makes everything feel better. Trust me. I know."

We kept dancing. And laughing. And spinning. Granola flying everywhere.

These are the moments I want to remember.

Not the tantrums, the screaming, the whining, the endless poop and clogged toilet, piles of laundry and food going bad in the refrigerator. I don't want my kids to remember me yelling at them or crying in frustration, or locking myself in my bedroom to just. get. away.

I want them to remember me acting like a happy fool, and dancing in the kitchen with them.