Today we visited the newly restored café in town, the Dienger, and had a ball...quite literally. After being drawn to a particular "pitching hat" in the men's clothing section, Jo and I found an excellent book (a Mark Twain board book adaptation), exchanged warm hellos with friends, and then made our way to the bakery counter where Jonah picked out a chocolate croissant (decisively, I might add - it's genetic), and then proceeded to take both of my hands in his. Flustered from trying to order and pay and keep my almost two-year old from practicing batting swings on the glass display windows, the glass serving pitchers, the glass trinkets and doo dads, and the glass everything all of a sudden seemed to be made of, I decided to divert my attention from the cash register all onto him, because, after all, if he's taking both of my hands he might have a sticker poking him or have just made a mess somewhere, or have seen an important dog or airplane.
It wasn't about a mess
or a dog
or a plane.
He took my hands because he wanted to dance. Yes, dance. Not the silly way we dance to the seasons song on Baby Einstein - no - actually dance.
He held my hands in his and said "dance, mm hmm," and he led me in a ballroom like sway right there in the middle of the Dienger, right in the middle of our order, right in the middle of a wonderful life.