The Dance

This weekend is the Holly Ball.

Let’s backtrack, shall we?  Will is being forced participating, against his will much to his chagrin, in Cotillion.  It’s what 6th graders around here do.  He’s learning, among other things, to dance.  They dress up once a month and meet at the Women’s Club, where hundreds of preteen boys and girls tolerate each other, flirt with each other, and generally grit their teeth to get through it for the sake of their mothers, enduring sweaty palms, watery lemonade and many left feet.  Last month, to his horror, he got pegged to demonstrate, on stage, how one does the Foxtrot.  Apparently he’s a Foxtrotting machine.  I was watching up in the balcony (that’s my little cutie pie!); I’m sure he wanted to die.

This next dance is the Holly Ball, a formal dance where the parents get to step in and dance with their sons/daughters.  I think it will be lovely and I am looking forward to dancing with my sweet, handsome son.

He couldn’t be dreading anything more.

The general consensus from a backseat of boys on the way home from last month’s dance: “yeah, Holly Ball is gonna suck.”

Will broke his thumb last week.  He gleefully announced to me that it will be impossible for him to dance with his cast, because you have to hold hands.  I’ve seen the hand holding going on and let me tell you, those kids are barely grazing fingertips.  He’ll be fine.  This is the kid who’s been outside playing football and riding his bike, went to (and participated in) basketball practice last night, and has no problems doing anything, except for homework.  And, apparently, dancing.  Then, he found out he has a basketball game on Saturday and now is overly concerned there will be a timing conflict.  Um, we’ll manage.  The reason-du-jour?  The cast's stench.  It would be impolite and inconsiderate to subject a poor girl to the horror.  

At least he's getting something out of this, Foxtrot notwithstanding.

(side note:  The fact that he’s so squirmy about this delights me to no end!)

Wish him luck.  I will be placing all of his clothes out early, so that “misplaced clothing item” won’t be the next excuse (trust me, I’ve seen him squirrel away a tie or two in the hopes it will magically disappear forever).

Wish me luck that I can Foxtrot my way through all the excuses to get to the actual event.  Do you know how hard it is going to be to keep a straight face through all of this?  I might even cry.  For real.  That would really throw him for a loop.


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