when they asked . . .

It was a simple request.

“Come dance with us.”

But we were so comfortable.

The grown ups all lounging on the patio,

fire crackling far more for ambience and effigy burning than for warmth or need,

relaxing from the overdose of tacos and chocolate cake.

And what none of us wanted to do was to get up,

to dance.

Sitting was what we wanted.

However.

One of us caved

and the rest of us were forced to follow along lest we appear as the selfish parents we were becoming.

It was the Virginia Reel

and every bare-footed, sweaty-headed child was clapping and swinging and dosey-do-ing,

from the the three-year-old to the twelve-year-old.

When we grown ups took the two minutes it required to get over ourselves

we laughed,

clapped,

got a little sweaty

and joined hands across the aisle with our sons and our daughters

and we danced.

Well after bedtime on a Friday night.

Candlelight flickering

and a street lamp shedding just enough light to keep the momentum going.

We danced.

I grinned at my daughter who was just thrilled to have mom as her dance partner.

And it didn’t take this parent very long to recognize a willing pre-teen dance partner is worth dirty feet and sweaty palms and the likelihood of looking a little foolish.