All she wants to do is dance

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I've always wanted to be a dancer. Not the kind of dancer who joins dance troupes or groups or makes any money at it, just the kind of dancer who has no qualms about getting out on the dance floor and dancing. Without reservation. Like the Single Ladies. Or the Wrinkled Ladies. Or maybe even something like this:

Or not. Only because I'd need to dance a whole lot more than I do now to make that happen. And wear high heels for the woman's part, which I don't. Or be a man for the man's part, which I'm not.

I had my chance to dance at BlogHer '11. Dancing along the lines of those single ladies. With lots of other ladies. I didn't take advantage of that chance, though, because although I dance regularly when no one's watching, I surely won't do it in public. At least not until I've had far too many drinks to care what anyone's thinking. I wasn't willing to get to the Happy Dance state on the BlogHer party dance floors when my goal for the gig was to represent my blog, my brand, my fellow Boomer grandparent bloggers, not to shake my grandma groove thang.

In private, I dance a lot. I dance by myself. I dance with the dogs. I host dance parties with Bubby each and every time we're together.

I have even, believe it or not, taken dance lessons. In preparation for Megan and Preston's wedding five years ago, Jim and I attended a few ballroom dance classes. We learned, well, were at least shown the steps to the waltz, fox trot, rumba, and more. And we enjoyed it, even ended up doing okay on the dance floor during our daughter's reception. But once the wedding bells stopped ringing, dance steps were nada, zip, zilch. Even at weddings we've attended since, even in the privacy of our own home.

And that makes me sad. Because I want to be a dancer. I want to glide across the dance floor in my partner's arms. I want to merengue and cha-cha. I want to try club dancing before I'm so old the slightest snap or pop would surely pop me right into traction. I'd even be happy to join a line dance that goes beyond the Chicken Dance. (I have had my share of Chicken Dances.)

I want to try all those. In public. With abandon.

Without having to down six 7&7s in advance in order to get up the nerve.

The last time I visited Bubby, we had our usual dance party. Baby Mac was napping, Roxy the dog was moved out of the way, and the Toddler Tunes were cranked. Bubby and I moved. We grooved. We shook our homemade macaroni music-maker shakers to the beat. (Macaroni music-maker shakers are another story, for another day.) I put Bubby on my shoulders and we danced like never before, through the family room, the kitchen, the living room and more.

Until it was Bubby's turn to choose the next moves.

Bubby's choice for further dance party play was the "I'm going to hide and you call out for your lost dance partner" move. Which we did. Bubby hid behind the ottoman, I cried out how sad and lonely I was, all alone on the dance floor.

"Where or where could my dance partner be?" I called out. Soon Bubby magically appeared. He peaked from behind the ottoman, then ran to stand before me, ready to get down with Gramma. I took his hand, and together we beeped and bopped to the current Toddler Tunes selection.

Next time I'm in public, wanting to dance but too afraid to step out onto the floor, I'm going to try the technique that worked so well in Bubby's game. I'm going to call out to be joined on the dance floor by my long-lost partner.

Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the dance partner who joins me will be the one who's held me back from boogie-ing before.

In other words, maybe the one to join me will be me.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite place to bust a move?

Tall tales and tag clouds

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I started Grandma's Briefs more than two years ago primarily to share all things Bubby. What he is, what he does, and what he says. If you take a look at the sidebar to the right, you'll see in the "I write about" tag cloud near the bottom that the largest word there—meaning the word that gets the most play, gets tagged most often here on the blog—is, of course, Bubby.

Grandma's Briefs was all about Bubby because Bubby was my only grandchild.

Then along came Baby Mac. And because I'm now just as enamored with him as I was (and continue to be) with Bubby, there's a whole lot of catching up to do to get the size of Mac's name in the Grandma's Briefs tag cloud anywhere near the size of Bubby's.

To do that, I need to, just as I did with Bubby, write many a post on all he is, all he does, and all he says.

"You can write all about what he is and what he does," you may be thinking, "but Baby Mac, at two-and-a-half-months old, surely isn't saying anything yet."

And that right there is where I'd have to stop you and say, "Au contraire, dear readers and think-out-louders. For my little Baby Mac is indeed saying a whole lot more than most might imagine."

In fact, Baby Mac is quite the story teller. Just listen to this tale of happiness—sprinkled with a wee bit of woe—he dished out just for his captivated Gramma:

 

See what I mean? With so much to say, it won't take long for Baby Mac's name to inch closer and closer to the size of Bubby's. Sure, Bubby will naturally always be larger; it's one of the perks of being my firstborn grandchild, I suppose.

But I can imagine Mac will soon outsize grandparenting—and he'll be giving Grilled Grandmas a run for their money in no time.

Today's question:

If you were to share the story of your weekend, would it be a tale of adventure, woe, happiness, serendipity, or sloth?

The Saturday Post: Germaphobes at the movies edition

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Yay! Fall, my favorite time of the year, is on its way!

Now that I no longer have kids in school and have no reason to participate in the Back-To-School Fall Frenzy, fall means just one thing to me: movies!

Okay, fall means more than that to me, but movies are indeed a biggie. The summer blockbusters will soon be out of the theaters and the films more to my liking—the independents, the sweeping dramas, the Oscar contenders—will soon be moving in.

There are several movies I look forward to seeing before the end of the year. One on the must-see list—one that equally fascinates and freaks out this germaphobe grandma—is this, coming in September:

Today's question:

In public places and spaces, what are you diligent about not touching because of its germiness?

29 years ago today

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Twenty-nine years ago today, Jim and I had our first baby girl. We were just kids ourselves—I was 18, he was 21—and were ill equipped to be parents, to say the very least. But we were determined to figure it out and do right by our precious pink bundle we named Brianna.

We've messed up many times along the parenting path—sometimes egregiously so—and poor Nonner bore the brunt of many of those messes by virtue (or misfortune) of being our first. Yet somehow Jim and I did quite a bit right, too, it seems, as our sweet 6-pound, 10-ounce baby doll has grown into one of the most bright, beautiful, kind-hearted, supportive, giving, and forgiving women I know. Plus, she makes the very best cupcakes ever! (I kid you not...just take a look HERE.)

Now, in honor of her special day, I offer a musical presentation for Aunt B from Bubby, Baby Mac and their mama, just because I can:

Happy 29th birthday, Brianna! I am so thankful for you and for all you have taught me, not only about parenting but about myself, too! I love you beyond words!

Today's question:

What do you remember about your 29th birthday, the last one before the big 3-0?