Kicking it at the disco, yo

The Feral Threesome’s school dance was last Friday.

The Twin Tornado were super psyched to finally pass the threshold from observer seating area to dance floor.

This year’s theme was Disco – Hippie, Flower Child or Hobo.

My vote was for Hobo’s.  Whack on their oldest, most destroyed clothing.  Don’t bathe them or brush their hair for a few days.  Let them out in the muddy sand pit for a bit of action before we leave.  Job done.

So of course they decided to go as everything else. 

Disco Diva, a pimpish Disco Daddy, and a Flower Power Hippie Chick

 

Thankfully, Miss7 went sans lipstick after I told her hippies don’t wear make up.

And also that they got their energy to dance all night by eating broccoli for dinner before going out.  Heh.

The Twin Tornado's disco was first.

Miss4 did literally and liberally shake what her mama gave her.

I was so freaking proud.

At one point, her chicken dance became more like crazed chicken krumping.

She never stopped.

Meanwhile, Mstr4 did not enjoy the whole disco thing.

Except for hanging in the canteen with me.

Despite not going near the dance floor, he still rocked it like nobody’s business, yo.

Bench dancing while consuming his body weight in canteen food.
Like a boss, a retro disco boss

He kicked it in the canteen for the entire disco.

He loved the music, and grooved his little heart out.  His little body shimmying from side to side, head bopping, feet tapping – while sitting on the bench.

Absolutely blissed out, cooler than cool – as long as nobody dared suggest he get off the bench and go to the actual disco next door.  At which point he would lose his shit until said moron (usually #1Hubby, sometimes me) backed away slowly.

He is so my child.

I was the kid hanging in the canteen with my mother, too scared to go and join in, far too unco-ordinated to work out how to bust a move.  And so to this day I am also the chair/bench dancer.  I’ve almost worked out how to get half my body co-ordinated to do a little shimmy on my chair.  But don’t ever expect me to actually get up and dance.

Except when my kid is too scared, and then I’ll be in the middle of the dance floor with them.  Maybe next year will be his year, and mine, by way of coaxing him out there. In fact, if we started practising now, we could probably organise some sort of synchronised routine.