{"id":2700,"date":"2012-02-06T06:01:49","date_gmt":"2012-02-06T12:01:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mamamonk.com\/?p=2700"},"modified":"2012-02-06T06:01:49","modified_gmt":"2012-02-06T12:01:49","slug":"practices-of-parenting-carnival-in-which-i-believe-in-family-dance-parties","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/michaboyett\/2012\/02\/practices-of-parenting-carnival-in-which-i-believe-in-family-dance-parties\/","title":{"rendered":"{Practices of Parenting Carnival} In Which I Believe in Family Dance Parties"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>

<\/p>\n

My family had one living area in our three bedroom ranch house. It had a shiny brick bench in front of the fireplace. It was a perfect place for a stage and served as one pretty faithfully for this girl obsessed with her own performance skills. Most of my best moves were done while I happened to be alone in that living room, Amy Grant\u2019s newest cassette on the tape deck and my back to the audience, arms rising at my sides, hands jazz-spread. I only turned around to sing the words at the last possible moment, \u201cAngels Watching Over Me!\u201d belted to the couch full of stuffed animals.<\/p>\n

By that point, I was alone in my performances. I was the youngest and my brothers\u2013three and five years my seniors\u2013had long moved on to the more important things that 12-year-olds and 15-year-olds think about. But, long before my solo career, we performed as a trio, late (at least it felt late to me) Saturday nights, with Mickey Mouse Disco<\/a><\/em> on the record player, my parents moving around us for what felt like the entire record: just us dancing and laughing and singing at the top of our lungs. It was 1984 or 1985 and I was five. My brothers were heroes even then, skinny goofballs with dances I\u2019d never seen before (they\u2019d learned them at school, no doubt). I was mesmerized by those boys, but we were still equals in our shared home, raised one at a time onto our father\u2019s shoulders while my mother gasped in fear. And running from one side of that room to the other where a pile of pillows and blankets made for a perfect diving pit.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s what I think about when my boys are cozied into their jammies, the baby scooting along the coffee table in his little footies, the preschooler running from the door to the carpet for a knee slide (how does every boy instinctively know how to knee slide from the moment he turns three?).<\/p>\n

See, I\u2019m imperfect. And, even more shockingly, my husband is not quite perfection either. And there are days when all I\u2019ve been is the worst version of myself: snappy and frustrated and envious of all the people in the world who have perfect children (it\u2019s only on those days that I think perfect children exist somewhere). I have yelled when I didn\u2019t want to. I\u2019ve cried on the toilet. I\u2019ve eaten an entire bar of dark chocolate during nap time. And I\u2019ve found myself rolling my eyes at the pile of laundry as if it\u2019s the laundry\u2019s fault for existing.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s on those days that I absolutely must turn on the music after bellies are fed and teeth are brushed. I know, you\u2019re not supposed to rile your kids up before bed. I know, it\u2019s supposed to be time for quiet and gentle nudging toward sleep. But, sometimes, your husband gets home from work and you stuff pasta into everybody\u2019s bellies and you find yourself sitting on your bed asking God to remind you that your life is the most beautiful of all: That your life is a miracle of grace. That these children came from your body\u2026but before that, they were secrets in the heart of God. That your husband just showed up that night in Ithaca, New York. He just showed up at that random house you visited with your barely-friends before the acapella concert and he walked with you up the road, in the dark, both of you bundled under sweaters in November night.\u00a0And in that reminder of grace: your body sitting on the bed is filled magically with light, as if you were finally your true self for the first time that day. The boys are whining in the bathroom, getting their teeth brushed by that man you loved first that night in 2002 and now you see him scrubbling their teeth, his eyes older, his jaw stronger and better than before and you know it\u2019s time.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s only one thing to do:<\/p>\n

Find the Katy Perry Pandora station. Hit play. That\u2019s when August runs from across the room and dives and you dive with him. That\u2019s when Brooksie rides on your husband\u2019s shoulders and you gasp a little and then release your breath and out of your mouth comes all the lies you believed that day: about your worth, about what\u2019s lacking.<\/p>\n

And here, right here, this moment, when Usher is singing about the dance floor and the baby is squealing, you recognize the truth. And you spin in it holding your son and you both laugh because all is forgiven; all is new.<\/p>\n

Linking up with one of my very favorites Sarah Bessey at Emerging Mummy<\/a> for the \u201cPractices of Parenting Carnival.\u201d (And using her signature, \u201cIn Which\u2026\u201d style in her honor.) You should link up too!<\/h5>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My family had one living area in our three bedroom ranch house. It had a shiny brick bench in front of the fireplace. It was a perfect place for a stage and served as one pretty faithfully for this girl obsessed with her own performance skills. Most of my best moves were done while I […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1005,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[39,70,71,83,95,126],"class_list":["post-2700","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-motherhood","tag-crazy-mother","tag-home","tag-hope","tag-mama-life","tag-parenting","tag-sweet-monday"],"yoast_head":"\n{Practices of Parenting Carnival} In Which I Believe in Family Dance Parties - Micha Boyett<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"My family had one living area in our three bedroom ranch house. It had a shiny brick bench in front of the fireplace. 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