Change of tune

I went to my first rummage sale yesterday. It wasn't as good as I expected it to be. As promised, it was enormous, and there were tons of people who seemed to enjoy the rummaging. But despite the rumors I'd heard, there wasn't an amazing amount of really nice stuff to be found. Instead, there were a lot of shoulder pads.

And when you tell me something is going to be good, I start to daydream a future that is so unbelievable - "Look at this brand-new Gucci jacket for ONE dollar!" - that I actually feel like it already happened to me. And when it doesn't, I feel deceived.

So despite the few good toys I found for my Miss, I got home in a tired, disappointed mood, though all the kind comments and stories from yesterday cheered me up quite a bit. (And frankly made me embarrassed. You do all know I'm just regular, right?)

Then, Mr. Dub had to work late. And since we're a one-car family until the end of the month, I had to wait by the phone to find out when he needed to be picked up and whether or not that would be followed by dinner at our friends' house. (The answer, ultimately, was no, for which I offer my continued apologies to the hostess.)

When we finally got the call to pick him up, I hurriedly put together a "maintenance bag" for Miss Dub as her cranky hour coincides with sunset. We then set off in the car, bad moods respectively intact.

As we sat at a stop light, our stereo began to play Feist's "1, 2, 3, 4." Call it overplayed if you will, but its catchy sound is still honey to my ears, and I found myself happily singing along. Suddenly, I noticed a tapping sound from behind me. I looked back to find Miss Dub dancing in her car seat and flinging her favorite bunny back and forth to the beat. This made me even happier so I started to sing louder and clap wildly to encourage her moves.

Suddenly, I noticed the woman next to me was staring. I tried to look away, but before I could, I realized she was smiling. And not just any smile but the kind of smile that said, "That just made my day."

And I thought, "That's it? That's all it takes to change your mood? A mother and baby dancing to a silly song?"

But like a teenager girl pursuing her crush, I couldn't be stopped. I kept singing, and Miss Dub kept dancing. As we streamed passed the stalled traffic going the other direction, I started to really rock out. I began pointing, smiling, waving and honking my horn. I encouraged Miss Dub to pump her fists. Not everyone noticed, but those who did instantly smiled. Some waved back. Others honked. And I could tell we were making their day, even if it was just because we looked ridiculous and would make a great story to share over the dinner table.

Finally, the song came to a close. We rounded a corner where a bright orange sun was setting against a pale purple sky. I giggled. Miss Dub squealed.

And you know what? It made my day.


... Until some lady hit our car and fled the scene while we were out to dinner. But we pulled a CSI and managed to piece together who done it. And it still didn't ruin my mood.

Shall we dance?

Miss Dub loves a good dance party.

And I’m happy to oblige.

At least once a day (if not more), I like to break out the iTunes and get down.

Real dancing – the kind where you jump up and down, feel the rhythm in your blood and just let go. The kind where your hair looks frazzled from the commotion. The kind where your heart is beating so fast you wonder if someone else can hear it. The kind that is so contagious your 6-month-old starts to do a little shimmy-shake.

That’s the kind of dancing Miss Dub likes.

And I’m happy to oblige.

On Friday, I had a lot of procrastinated cleaning to get done but worried if the lil’ Miss would patiently endure it whilst hopping in her exersaucer. So I turned it into a dance party.

I put on some lip gloss, grabbed Miss Dub and the cleaning supplies and blasted The Gorillaz.

Between Clorox wipes, I hopped up and down while Miss Dub gleefully watched from a nearby bed or couch. While sweeping, I stopped and sang Sia into my broom/microphone and imagined Miss Dub was a sea of roaring fans. And when it came time to switch rooms, I grabbed her and spun us wildly to the intoxicating choruses of Regina Spektor.

(I should note that while I really, really want Miss Dub to dig mellow, indie tunes sung mostly by women singer/songwriters, my child wants nothing to do with them. She’s happiest when I’m shaking my thang to a little Jay-Z or doing to the robot to a little N.E.R.D. Because I pretty much think the robot is the perfect dance for all music, including classical.)

By the end of the music mix, my house was filled with a lemon-fresh scent and lick-em-they’re-so-clean countertops. But most importantly, I was out of breath – some due to the cardio nature of dancing, mostly because I was overwhelmed at the sight of a giddy baby.

Miss Dub was raucously laughing, clicking her heels and tossing her head back. She didn’t care that I was multi-tasking. She didn’t care that it was 1 p.m. and I hadn’t showered. She didn’t even care that I sometimes sing the wrong words to songs.

She just cared that I was dancing.

Because Miss Dub loves a good dance party.

And I’m happy to oblige.