My baby leans forward in his excersaucer and squints at me. He wears an amused smile that tells me he’s not so sure about Mummy’s jerky movements.
I keep dancing, anyway. I can’t stop to explain myself. I’m too busy being a Mummy rock-star! I am owning this stage!
My fists are punching the air and I’m jumping and I’m huffing and puffing and I’m singing at the top of my lungs and I’m flailing my arms all over the place and I’m…I’m…Oh. Okay. I’m looking for my wedding ring. It’s just flown straight off my finger, mid flail.
What a flail, fail.
Thankfully, I find the ring quickly, amongst a pile of Baby C’s toys. This is a good thing because I am on a roll with this Mummy rock-star caper. I get back up on my stage—a small section of carpet in our bedroom—and off I go again.
I’m jumping and flailing. Jumping and flailing. I pump out the words. They are loud and they are crisp.
‘Toot toot chugga chugga big red car! We travel near and we travel fa-ah- har. Toot toot chugga chugga big red car, we’re gonna ride the whole day long!’
This time, when I look down, Baby C is bouncing up and down. He’s dancing! My beautiful baby boy is actually dancing! He’s bopping along to the music. And he’s wearing the cheesiest of grins.
He’s jumping and flailing. Jumping and flailing. Just like his silly, Mummy.
My littlest rock star. My biggest smile.