Dancing the night away

My parents gave up classic rock and roll when I went away to college.  My mom finally convinced my dad to take dance lessons, country western swing dance lessons.  After a couple of weeks, they realized their timing was off because my dad was listening to The Beach Boys in his head.  He gave it up for my mom.  Ten years later, they go dancing four nights a week dancing with the car radio blasting country, with my dad crooning songs as he listens to his MP3 player.

Good country music is all right, but I’m an alternative girl.  I spent my youth going to straight edge clubs, dancing to garage bands, moshing, skanking, free style dancing.  I love the rawness of it, the newness, the trying something different, looking for the new sound.  I love just dancing too it, though my dancing has been cut drastically since the boys, not to mention monitoring those adult content songs.

My mom is starting a line dancing class this Wednesday.  She has been scouring for more dances, calling all her friends and associates, making flyers, getting babysitting for the boys.  “You’ll come, won’t you? Your dad can watch the boys and bring them to the bar when the class is over.”  Um.  Line dancing?

It takes me several days of practice to get a dance down.  I hardly know my left from my right.  To remember all those steps, timed with music, it makes my mind swirl, and I end up looking as graceful as a cow.  I won’t tell you how many weeks it took me to learn to swing back in high school, which is all forgotten now.  I won’t bore you with details of the private dance lessons (because the husband doesn’t dance without a blood-alcohol level of .16) two months before the wedding.  Not to mention, line dancing?  What part of my music taste equals group coordination?  It’s all about not being a Tool, Raging Against the Machine, having a Green Day.

But it’s my mom.  She needs social approval, so if no one comes she’ll be crushed.  She needs moral support, so if I don’t come, she’ll be hurt.  Granted if her friends come, then I’ll be completely ignored, but I don’t need social approval.  To her it’s a gone conclusion that I’ll be there.  I don’t want to, but I feel I have to because look at all the softball, volleyball, basketball, Girl Scout, swimming, drama, school events she had to attend for me. 

Though this cow doesn’t want to, I’ll be there tomorrow night (unless I can come up with a good excuse) with combat boots on instead of bells (or cowboy boots).  Well, at least, I look good in a cowboy hat.  Just promise me I can still get the new Green Day album.

A Delightful Family Planning Discussion with my Mom. Wohoo.

Me: . . . to prepare for my first trimester and –

 

Mom: What?!

 

Me: I said I was planning on buying a few extra gingerbread mixes to prepare when I’m in my first trimester.  You know-

 

Mom: Do you have something to tell me?

 

Like I would ever “forget” to tell my mom that I was pregnant.  She’s the planned third person to know.  I say planned because in both of my previous pregnancies she was out with her girlfriends when I found out and I ended up telling my dad instead.  Besides if I wanted to string her along, I would have done a better job as I am my father’s daughter.

 

Me: No, Mom.  I said “prepare.”  We’ve decided to wait six months.  It-

 

Mom: Six months?!  To start trying?

 

Me: Yes.

 

Mom: But that’s so far away!  Why?

 

Maybe it’s just me, but I do remember her trying to convince me to wait a little longer before the third pregnancy, and now six months is too far away.  Mom, you give me whip lash.  Besides I could have sworn we had this conversation before; she must have been on the computer when I told her, pretending to listen as she tried to figure out 10 down.

 

Me: Because we want to make sure the office is healthy.  Because I want to make sure we’re financially healthy.  I like the idea of spending more one on one time with Sean when Evan goes to preschool.  I like getting into a swing of things before the baby comes.  I like to drop another five pounds.  I want to go to my brother’s Arizona wedding reception.  Because I want to.

 

Really, it’s the smartest thing to do.  This way my husband isn’t completely stressed as they pull out of the worst time of year (ask any business owner who does business to business work; they all hate the holidays and the end of the year because it’s the end of the budget and important people are off on ski trips.  My husband can be a real Scrooge.).  We’ll know how long it takes to get to the preschool and the schedule, so I can work it in with breastfeeding.  Maybe I’ll even make a friend or two who can carpool with me.  I wouldn’t want to miss my brother’s second reception.  So now instead of wobbling my way through the Northeast coast, I’ll be vomiting.

 

Mom: You don’t have to wait so long.  You could get pregnant sooner and have a January or February baby.

 

Me: I don’t like winter babies.

 

Mom: Why not?

 

My husband: (Walking into the room) Why not?

 

Me: Because I like summer birthdays.  I don’t want to have birthdays close to Christmas.  And all my really cute maternity clothes are for the summer.

 

Do I have to have multiple reasons for every decision?

 

Mom: I guess it makes sense not to have a birthday close to Christmas.  Your brother’s is in November.  (Duh)  All your birthdays were three months apart; if we had another, it would have been born in February.  How about March?

 

Me: Late March would be fine.

 

Mom: See, that’s not so far away.  Besides you never know how long it’ll take you to conceive. 

 

Oh, you mean it may take us three times in a month versus the magic once?  Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.  Did I just hear laughing?