Dancing Queens

It's weird. I remember teaching each of my children how to walk. Well, not so much teaching them but coaxing them through it, giving them the bits of encouragement they needed to keep going. I loved those first days, the ones when they would surprise themselves just to be standing, then propel themselves into my waiting arms.

All three of them have been standing on their own two feet for quite some time, walking and propelling themselves forward without my help. Some days, my youngest daughter kicks it up a notch, and she dances. Not organized dancing, but the kind that just comes naturally when you're feeling good, the kind that is so contagious the people around you can swear they hear music. Like the other day, when we had sushi for lunch and then went to the ladies room, together, which wouldn't be so odd if the bathroom hadn't been a "onesie." When we pushed the door open and realized this, we looked at each other, then looked both ways to make sure nobody was watching, shrugged and marched in together. I am pretty sure there was music playing, really odd music; at least we both heard it. We burst out laughing, and she started to dance. I followed suit.

After a minute or so, I was laughing so hard I had to pee, which made it all the more sweet that we were in the bathroom and not, say, in the kitchen. I danced (yes, like a white woman) over to the toilet; she danced over to the toilet paper roll, unraveling it and twirling it over her head as if she were a  rhythmic gymnast. We did a half do-si-do to switch places. I did what I have to assume was a graceless sashay over to the sink, and watched in the mirror as she glided up behind me. After tossing our towels into the basket with a dramatic flourish, we pushed the door open a crack, made sure nobody was paying attention, and tried our best to do a dignified strut out of the restaurant. A midday walk of shame, and all we did was dance.

I could swear I heard the music for the rest of the afternoon. We danced our way through a bit of shopping, a cup of gelato, and a leisurely stroll through town. It felt as if the ground beneath us had become a makeshift dance floor where troubles seemed relegated to the sidelines, drowned out by the music. For me, the day could easily have gone the other way. I had accompanied my daughter to the photography studio while she sat for her senior yearbook pictures. One of the first reminders in what promises to be a year full of reminders that she is ready to leave. That the little girl who was as surprised as anybody when she propelled herself into my arms so many years ago is ready to run, ready to dance, and more than ready to fly.

I am the one who is shaky these days, the one who is constantly surprised when I find myself standing, much less propelling myself forward. But forward I go, whether there is someone waiting to catch me or not. My daughter is a reliable sidekick, strong and optimistic, but it is not her job to catch me when I wobble. She does, however, teach me how to keep going sometimes, when the going gets tough. Not so much teach, but coax me and give me little bits of encouragement on those days when even baby steps seem like a challenge. She has a sixth sense about all that, knows when I need that extra little push.

All I have to do in return is continue to be her rock, the one she knows will work things out when life seems a bit uncertain. She worries, for example, that in a few weeks, when we close on our house, we will not have a place to live. Like me, she is independent, and does not view temporarily moving in with friends as a viable option. She knows I still don't really have a firm plan, that there are still too many balls in the air, and that makes her a little nervous. But she knows, deep down, no matter how shaky I may appear some days, that I will not drop the balls, and that I will somehow manage to figure it all out. She's right. I'm pretty sure.

She is an avid runner now, as I once was before my hips and knees and other wobbly parts convinced me to quit. I miss it, that incomparable rush of adrenaline, the clarity and optimism that go hand in hand with hitting your stride. We decided the other day that she would teach me to run again. Well, not so much teach me but coax me and give me those bits of encouragement I need to keep going. We began on the day of the dance, with baby steps; while I snuck some preemptive Advil, she mapped out a manageable mile long loop. "No rush, mom," she told me as I whined my way through the first few paces. "All you need to do is finish." Easy for her to say; two minutes into it, I couldn't even breathe. Which at least distracted me from the slight twinge in my hip. "Halfway there, mom," she announced as we rounded the second corner. Why the heck wasn't the little shit wheezing? All I wanted to do was stop and eat some cheesecake. "Home stretch!" Had I said the cheesecake thing out loud? She measured the remaining distance by the number of houses. As long as she kept talking, she knew I wouldn't stop. She can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

We have achieved a delicate balance in the last few years, defining and redefining our roles in a household where we are the only two remaining. We teach and coax and encourage each other, as needed. When it comes to running, she is in charge. When it comes to working out all the logistics to keep us safe and not drop any of the balls, that's my department. Seems fair enough.

Somehow, we will dance across the finish line together.