Getting Older

Apparently, once you hit a certain age, even something as simple as a toddler dance party becomes a full-contact, joint-jarring, intense cardio work-out.

Last night, we ended the day by dancing to J-Lo, Lady Gaga, and whatever country music Steve happened to stumble upon while our preferred dance music radio station happened to be at commercial. And when Brigid wouldn't agree to dance with me, I brought her stuffed frog into the mix, and old froggy and I cut a pretty impressive rug around the room.

And Brigid thought this was hilarious.

The wilder froggy and I danced, the funnier she thought it was. And the harder she laughed, the harder I danced around the room, because that kid has the best laugh. Ever. Steve tried to sit out the dance party, choosing to record Brigid's giggling fit (and trying to catch me on video in the middle of a particularly impressive dance move), but Miss B was having none of it. So Brigid and her monkey (her chosen dance partner for the evening) and me and my little green friend were soon joined by Steve, dancing with Babar and Grover.

Because Steve has skills, you know.

And this morning? Well, my legs feel like I spent an hour dancing barefoot around Brigid's bedroom like an idiot, of course.*

Apparently, I need to upgrade to some proper athletic footwear for bedtime.

*In my defense, I don't think all of my sore feet/sore ankles/sore ribs problems can be directly attributed to the dance party. I think some of it may have had to do with the barefoot dancing/sprinting/hurdling/kick-butt discus throwing I did this weekend on the Kinect. Because that is a work-out...