Dancing With Myself

Last week, once the Puke ended and before Justin came home from Alaska, the kids and I would get home from work/school and I’d pour a bowl of Cheerios start dinner, feed Cooper, then Gavin and I would eat.  Meanwhile, I’d have the radio turned onto 94.7 The Globe…it has a nice range of music styles on it and good for bopping around the kitchen.  Keeps the kids entertained and not focused on their hunger, and I can pretend to be the best semi-sober singer/dancer in the world.  If Gavin’s being a particularly pillish stinker, he’ll holler things like "no zing-ing!  no daaaan-sing!"  I usually ignore him and keep doing what I’m doing until he flips his lid (we’ve already established that I feed my kids junk food and pump them full of TV; purposely irritating shouldn’t be a surprise).

Well, this particular night, The Donnas song, Dancing With Myself was playing and I was singing along and doing my best British faux-punk dance while setting dinner on the table.  As usual, Gavin got annoyed with me.

• G:  Mommy, ‘top daaan-sing!
• M:  Come on, Buddy…don’t you want to dance with me? (singing) oh-oh-oh-oh
• G:  Noooooo!
• M:  Fine…I’m okay with that (singing and dancing again) cuz I’m-a-just-a dancin’ wi’ my-sel-lf oh-oh-oh-oh!

Gavin takes one look at me and starts laughing.  And I start laughing because I literally saw the lightbulb turn on over his head when he realized what I was singing at him was the words to the song playing on the radio.  I think he was also laughing at my ridiculous dancing skillz. 

And to think, that’s how I ensnared trapped attracted his father in the first place.