by Andrea Mulder-Slater
Geoff, the 4 year old and I were sitting in the car, waiting in the parking lot, while Jantje shopped for snow pants in the store.
The air outside was cold. I knew this because my window was down – so I could get a better view of the moonrise. I glanced back at my daughter who was busy tracing virtual letters with her fingers.
“Can I have the ipod?” I asked. “Sure,” my little one chirped as she handed me the first real handheld smart device our family has ever owned. Well, the second, if you count the painfully large electronic organizer I carted around with me in my twenties. It was black, had lots of tiny buttons (despite it’s gargantuan size) and had just enough memory to hold four, maybe five addresses. Six if you left out the postal codes. It was the perfect match for my Motorola bag phone – you know, the one with the curly cord.
It was the 90s. I was awesome. Obviously.
As I took a few photos of the bright yellow ball hanging low in the winter sky, Geoff turned on the radio. A Beyoncé song was playing. At least, we think it was Beyoncé. Truthfully, we had no idea.
I handed the ipod with all of three educational apps back to my tech-savvy child. Then, Geoff and I started dancing. In the car.
My window was still open, allowing the music to escape - thus drawing the attention of other parking lot dwellers who were now watching two 40-somethings grooving to the beat.
It was dark out. We looked awesome. Obviously.
I rolled up the window, noticed a few spectators on the sidewalk and said, “Check us out, a couple of old people, chair dancing in our Volvo.”
As I bounced my head and performed my signature shadow-boxing dance move, it occurred to me that this was not hip. I looked over at my middle-aged husband who was shoulder shrug grooving – eyes closed.
“Oh dear god, " I said, "This is the antithesis of cool.”
Geoff stopped his jiving, looked at me and clarified, “You know what’s not cool? Using the word antithesis. Nothing about what you just said is cool. There is nothing we’re going to do at this point that will make us look cool.”
Pausing to comprehend the level of our collective lameness while Queen B (do we still call her that?) completed her booty ballad, we both burst out laughing as our 4-going-on-14 year old youngster sighed and said, “Guys, can you PLEASE turn that down?”
It might be time to dig out my satchel phone. I've got a feeling this kid might appreciate it.
And so it begins...
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I wrote the #1 read post on Erica Ehm's Yummy Mummy Club in 2015:
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