Frances Goes to a Ball

Yesterday, Frances went to NB's birthday party. She was the only child there that NB wasn't related to, so Erik and I felt like outsiders--because we were--for most of it, but Frances, social butterfly that she is, just melded herself right in.

She was the smallest child there, by a large margin, even though she was not the youngest by a year, and some of the children eyed her warily. Who is this tiny interloper who looks like a baby but does not act like one? Should I treat her gently, like a little baby, or roughly, like a toddler? I can't figure it out, so maybe I will avoid her instead. Frances must be used to it by now, because it didn't seem to make any impression. She just manhandled all of NB's toys while refusing to speak one audible word to anyone she wasn't related to.

Andrea: Can you say hello, Frances?

Frances: *suspicious silence*

Friendly Party Guest: Hello, Frances!

Andrea: Can you say hello, Frances?

Frances: *suspicious silence plus a reluctant wave*

This might lead one to think that she is shy. I have no idea how to reconcile this image with the one of her dancing with abandon to the child's musician who came in to play for 45 minutes.

There were bells to ring, songs to sing, toy dogs to pet, drums to beat, colourful gauzy scarves to shake in the air, and rattles to shake. All through it, Frances danced. She wiggled her bum, jumped in the air, stomped her feet, turned in circles, leapt and ran, while the other children and the adults watched. Were the other children dancing? you ask. No, no they were not. They were sitting with their bells, toys, drums, scarves and rattles and shaking, beating, petting or otherwise abusing them. They were singing. They were laughing. Sometimes they were rolling on the ground. But they were not dancing.

"Look at her!" the other adults would say. "Look at her dance! Isn't she having a great time? What great dancing, Frances! Oh, how cute."

I would have replied but I was too busy laughing. There is nothing more adorable on this earth than the sight of my tiny 29" toddler girl in her pink plaid party dress and little green sweater, dancing like a maniac the best she can.

In the almost-nine years that I've known Erik, I have not once seen him dance. He promised me before we got married that he would dance with me one day, but I have long since given up trying to collect on that promise because he simply refuses. He doesn't dance. Actually, that's not entirely true--he will sometimes sort-of dance with Frances, bopping up and down while holding her. But he still won't dance with me.

On the other hand, I have always been the first one out on the dance floor--stone cold sober, too. I like dancing, and whether I look like an idiot or not has always been beside the point. I can't help it. If there's music playing and I don't despise it, I'll dance.

And so will Frances, apparently.

Frances, my snippet, being the first out on the dance floor is something that will stand you in good stead. It won't just help you have a good time on social occasions; it won't just help you have more dance partners. Being willing to get out there and do something you love whether or not you're any good at it (though you are a wonderful dancer) and even if you're out there by yourself is a good trait. I'm proud of you.

I'm also going to make more time and space in our lives for you to dance. A cd player in the front room ought to do it. We'll turn on something with a good beat and dance till we get dizzy and fall over, then get right back up again.

Posted by Andrea at June 6, 2006 7:02 AM under Beanie Baby Brags

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