Post Naked Dance tonight, Sir Luke and our Little Miss were getting ready for bed. Yes, it sounds a bit pervy, doing a naked dance with your children when it’s still light outside. Or maybe worse if it’s dark out? But Lucas begged. It’s his favorite thing these days, tied on the elation scale with Thomas the Train. Luke Beckett finds his naked dancing to be almost as fun as his Naked Dance song. The song he sings while flopping and twirling about like a dervish goes like this:
The Naked Dance is your chance to do the Naked Dance,
Oooh, Baby, Baby, do the Naked Dance, come on and do the Naked Dance
That’s right, you’ve got it. To the tune of The Humpty Dance. It’s my own fault, really. One day, in an attempt to encourage pooping on the pot, I suggested to Phil we do a poo-poo dance, to reward the desired behavior. But without prep time, we had to act fast. Ta-da, you did it! Okay, yeah, sure. We’ll do the poo-poo dance. Phil claps, then says, “Go on, Mama, you start.” This is the part where I look at the camera, breaking the 4th wall. The first tune that came to mind, I will admit, was indeed The Humpty Dance, a song that reminds me of a meathead kid named Grimace from fat camp. The tune is now a fixture in our home, celebrating all things doody and nudie.
Post dance, Lucas slipped into his 18 month old short sleeved PJs (all we actually have, hence all the nakedness), then climbed into bed. His sister, however, refused to put on her pull-up. “I’m touching my gina,” she said.
“Okay. It’s fine if you want to touch your vagina. But no one else touches your vagina.”
“That’s right,” she says, “only Abby.”
“Right, and with clean hands, only. Now, come on, let’s put on your diaper for bed.”
“But then I can’t touch my gina.”
“Sure you can,” I say, hearing Phil choking into fits of laughter.
“But there’s no hole in my diaper to get at it, Mama.”
To which Phil responds, “She’s sooo her mother’s daughter.”