I Hope You Dance.

Today, I want to dance.  I want to push the table over to the far end of the dining room, open the door to the crisp night African air, and jig the night away. Unfortunately, my Nashville life has an acute shortage of African air and free-time at night, so it's probably not going to happen.

We spent many nights dancing the soles off our feet last summer, and I remember them fondly. Elegance and grace are not my strong points (let's go play in the DIRT!), but I did at least enjoy myself.

Towards the end of the summer, we decided to try and teach the kinders the Irish Jig.

I'm a glutton for punishment.

Johnny didn't want to dance with anyone and was exceptionally uncooperative. Queenie was incredibly confused and kept tripping over her own long legs. Ernest cried because Queenie wouldn't dance with him.  Chola was mildly baffled, and Theresa tried really hard but couldn't quite get the counting down.

And then there was Elias.

Going into it,  I didn't expect any participation from him at all.  We had played group games like soccer and kickball several times through the summer, and many times he simply refused to participate. He generally did okay with Duck Duck Goose, but if there was a ball involved then he wanted no part of it. Every other kid had their thing that they excelled at, but I just couldn't figure out where Elias fit (other than in the time-out chair).  Johnny loved the pig organs I showed them, but Elias was thoroughly disgusted.

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

Elias didn't just lack the general gusto of avid participation, but he also frequently deliberately acted up. He took a pair of scissors to his new book and beanie baby and shredded them both. Here he is picking up the innards of the poor stuffed walrus that he disemboweled.

 But the second that music turned on, something clicked for him.  It was as though music ran in his veins instead of blood.  I tried to walk him through how to do the Jig, but he was having a hard time doing it and learning it simultaneously. So he stepped back and watched my footwork as I walked through it one time. Then he did it perfectly.

Not only did he pick it up almost instantly, but he clearly loved it. His eyes lit up and he looked at me with wonder shining from his eyes, as if to say, "Look! I did something right!" We danced for an hour or so, and then they all scurried off to their next activity. Several times over the next few days, he would come and tug on my shirt and say, "Auntie Meghan, will you dance with me?" Here we are mid-jig:

There was kind of a running joke this summer concerning Elias's lovability.  I would often inform Amy that she would have a few free beds come August when I had to leave, because I fully intended to take a few... or all... of the kids with me.  I had two suitcases and a carry-on to work with, so I was pretty sure I could fit most of them. "I'm taking them all!" I would threaten. Her innocent reply was usually, "Except Elias?"

After much deliberation, I've decided I would take him too.  I could teach him to play the saxaphone and the piano.  I have some friends in a (freaking amazing) a capella group here on campus, and I would love for him to see and hear them sing.  His little head would probably just explode from sheer delight.  The sounds and beats of Nashville might just sync up to the odd little rhythm of his michievous, trouble-making, jig-dancing soul.  I think he should come and visit Auntie Meghan for a while...

Then I would at least have someone to dance with.