08:01:02 pm on
Sunday 23 Jun 2024

A Super Bowl of What
Jennifer Flaten

I huddle in a corner, all around me strobe lights flash in time to the blaring music. Meanwhile hoards of children stream past me screaming and waving their hands.

Is it the seventh ring of hell?

Close, but no, it is the winter “social” at the children’s school. Although after 25 minutes of socialization, I am ready to stop for the day and am in need of a stiff drink.

Yes, I am most definitely in the running for mother of the year for taking my children to their school dance. I would like it noted that not only did I take them to the dance, I actually stayed during the dance.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t my choice. The school requires parents to accompany their children to the dance.

Apparently, one too many parents dropped their offspring off at the front door and sped away never to be seen again. So, now parents are required to remain at school.

I believe the school hopes that the parents will interact with their children at the dance. Uh huh what I observed was a majority of the parents “interacting” with a large latte in the cafeteria.

As it happens the cafeteria, is as far away from the swarming mass of children as possible, yet still within in the school.

Since I have a weakness for strobe lights and bad dance music. Shush, that will be our little secret. I stay in the gym.

Besides, I am mesmerized, completely mesmerized, by several dads doing their best to impress or embarrass, it depends on your point of view, their kids.

Michael Jackson these men definitely are not, but what they lack in talent, and they lack much talent, they make up for in enthusiasm.

Watching one dad attempt to limbo caused my back to seize in sympathy. Somewhere there is a chiropractor clicking his heels together in glee, he will now be able to buy his new Mercedes compliments of limbo dad. 

While my dance card, sadly remained blank. I did enjoy watching the difference between girls-at-the-dance and boys-at-the-dance.

First difference, girls at the dance actually dance. The girls try very hard to do all the steps to the hokey pokey and god, help us the chicken dance.

The boys at the dance, on the other hand, prefer to interpret dance to mean an invitation to run around the gym. They stop chasing each long enough to engage in another time honored boy tradition--the chest bump thingy.

As a girl, I will remain forever in the dark about the chest bump. What does it mean? Why do it?

I am sure boys feel the same about the girls throw their arms around each other and jump up and down screaming in loud piercing tones every time the DJ spins a good song.

I do notice everyone is happiest when the DJ tells the kids what dance to do for the upcoming song.

Anytime the DJ announces free dance, the kids start to look nervous. While they can rock the ‘achy-breaky heart’, the best they do for a free dance is stand in a group and hop from foot to foot.

After what seems like an eternity, but is only an hour of ABBA and Taylor Swift, I gather up my children and head home-humming Dancing Queen the entire way.

Jennifer Flaten lives where the local delicacy is fried cheese, Wisconsin. She writes about family life, its amusing or not so amusing moments. "At least it's not another article on global warming," she says. Jennifer bakes a mean banana bread and admits an unusual attraction to balloon animals and cup cakes. Busy preparing for the zombie apocalypse, she stills finds time to write "As I See It," her witty, too often true column. "My urge to write," says Jennifer, "is driven by my love of cupcakes, with sprinkles on top. Who wouldn't write for cupcakes, with sprinkles," she wonders.

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