Last week my older son and I took a tap class. By the end of each session, I was grumpy, irritated with my feet, the teacher, and the world in general because: tap is hard. The teacher was great, but she moved along at a rapid clip, not letting anyone's stumbling put the entire class on hold. Which was good, but also very, very frustrating.
So I'd go home and practice, pounding out my lindies, paddles, and shuffles on the kitchen tiles (and tripping over the grout) until my toes refused to lift and my taps slurred. The next day's class would go a little smoother...until the teacher introduced yet another new step, at which point my confidence would drain right out of my clumsy toes, the frustration bubbling to the surface once again.
Every evening, tapping away in my hot kitchen, the fan sucking the slightly cooling air in through the window, the sweat would stream down my face, soaking my shirt, and dripping from my chin and nose until the tiled floor looked like it had been rained on.
“Ew, Mom, that is so gross! You need to wash the floor,” my younger daughter would wail.
“Shush,” I'd say. “I'm concentrating.”
On Friday night, the kids pushed back the kitchen table so I'd have more room to tap. And then my older son came downstairs with his Bose speaker, told me to move over, and cranked up the dance music. Before I knew it, all four kids had joined me on the dance floor. We did Crank It Like A Chainsaw (what the hey?), Cha Cha Slide, Macarena, etc. Shirts came off. Sweat flew. From his desk chair, my husband watched, laughing and occasionally snapping a photo.
And then, as is becoming my post-evening tap custom, I disappeared upstairs to read my book while soaking my overheated body in a tub of cold water.
This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.27.15), the boy and the tooth, the girl and the tea party, corn day, classic bran muffins, banana bran muffins, spicy Indian potatoes, and internal warfare.