Somewhere in the past few years, my oldest son stopped dancing. I’m not exactly sure when or why, but I noticed it a few weeks back as we were watching the end of Madagascar. Madagascar, in case you haven’t seen it, ends with the song “I Like to move it, move it!” 

It’s a get-off-the-couch-and-dance sort of moment, with a strong beat and lots of silly cartoon characters doing strange dances on the screen. My youngest, as always, leaped up and started dancing. I did too.

My oldest, however, just sat on the couch like a lump.

“Come on!” I said. “It’s dance time!”

“No,” he grumped.

I whisked my youngest off the ground and danced with him in the air for a while. He laughed and spun before flying back into the couch with a big old belly laugh. He rolled off the couch and launched into a break dancing routine.

My oldest started to get up to join in, then stopped himself.

“Come on,” I said. “You know you want to.”

“No!”

I danced over to him and tried to pull him off the couch, but he scurried away from me. In the ensuing struggle, I ended up holding him upside down by his ankles.

“Dadd-ee-ee,” he shouted.

Once you find yourself holding your six year old upside down by his ankles, there’s really not too much you can do. “Sorry,” I said, “I got to move it, move it” and I resumed dancing, gently swaying him back and forth.

He started to laugh. Then his little brother danced over and tickled him.

He lauged harder.  His face turned a not-too-delicate shade of pink. I gently stretched him out on the couch, careful not to bump his head.

He rolled off, still laughing, and launched into a dancing frenzy. “I got to move it, move it!”

He’s back to dancing after movies again – most of the time. Sometimes he dances and sometimes he jumps off the couch and runs away from me. I guess you’d have to call it a mixed victory.

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