Teaching My Son to Dance


He swooped in with one arm around my waist and grabbed my other hand in his.

As we glided around the kitchen floor, I asked him,

“Who taught you to dance?”

“My mom, of course,” he replied and nuzzled his face into my neck.

His mom. Of course.

She taught him to dance.

to open doors for ladies.

to do laundry.

to do dishes.

to help anyone who has his/her hands full. Figuratively and literally.

to iron.

to pick up the tab.

to listen to girls.

to hug often.

to help around the house.

to say, “I love you” freely.

to be the nice guy … even if it means finishing last.

He was her blond, curly-haired little buddy.

His dimply smile was his first “I love you.”

He was her first.

He made her a Momma.

She taught him to dance.

And so he glides through life as the kindest, most generous man I have ever met.

He waltzes through my days as my best friend.

His smile makes me better.

As I swoop Eddie up and bounce around the house with him in my arms to dance to whatever tune is in my head, his blond curls bob.

His dimples become deep caverns echoing his sweet laughter.

He throws his head back and squeals.

And he buries his face in my neck.

And I wonder…

Will he be kind?

Will he be generous?

Will he be respectful?

Will he tell his wife that his mom taught him to dance?

Katie Sluiter writes about life as a working mom at Sluiter Nation, writes creatively at Exploded Moments, and reviews books at Katie's Bookcase


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