(That pile of beams is a work in progress. Please ignore them in the middle of my kitchen. That's what I try to do.)
The after dinner clean up/dance party tradition is alive and well here these days. And of late, the boys have had a little bit of help from someone who just can't resist moving whenever the music's on. Inevitably, when I try to snuggle up with her in front of the fire for a post-dinner, pre-bed story, she tries to settle in like Adelaide and Harper. But it isn't long before she hears the music, glances sideways to plot her escape, and makes a dash for the kitchen to hang out with these two. Sometimes I feel myself cringe a little on the inside at the music choices and her sweet little ears, as I remember the first songs that Calvin and Ezra knew at this age being by the likes of Woody Guthrie, Elizabeth Mitchell, and Pete Seeger. Instead of Grassy, Grass, Grass being the first lyrics I hear out of her little mouth (as I remember with Calvin), I heard just the other day, coming from this fifth baby of mine, Ice Ice Baby (it's retro cool, ya know).
But oh, those dance parties. Dance parties with her big brothers, who pick her up and spin around the room with her, then show her a move or two she can do on her own. Dance parties with big brothers who adore her. That makes it all okay by me. Better than okay. It's nothing short of wonderful, really.