Lighten up: ‘What would Brittany do’
By Dawn Weber
So you think you can dance?
I thought I could, too. Until I checked with my kids.
This all became crystal clear to me recently, when I tried to pass down my, er, “moves, Yo.”
Now, I am not afraid to shake what my mama gave me. Bring me your Old School tunes - your M.C. Hammer and whatnot. Even some music by those big-haired 80s white guys. I will be tearing up that floor faster than you can say “Ice, Ice, Baby.”
So when “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot (“I like big butts and I cannot lie/you other brothers can’t deny…) played on the radio last week and the kids started singing along, I figured it was time to pass along my legacy.
I began to dance.
My children (Combined: 18 months gestation! 42 hours labor! Untold missed servings of caffeine/ other beverages!) had these loving comments:
Daughter: “Hey Levi, look at Mommy, - dancing like an Old Lady!”
Son: “Hee hee hee!”
Me: (Pulling out hipper, hotter moves) “Wait, guys, wait! Watch this!”
Daughter: “Look at her! She’s still doing it!”
Son: (Doubled over) “Ha ha ha ha ha….”
Me: (Sensing that they’re not feeling my Hot Mama genius, I totally break it down with my best stuff. Moves normally reserved for big, Italian, Youngstown weddings…)
Daughter: “She’s getting worse Levi! Look - she’s sweating. Look at her! Oh jeeeezzzz!!!”
Me: (Stopping) “Humph.”
Sigh. It wasn’t always like this. These two used to like me. Worship me, even. One of my favorite memories? Long ago, my baby daughter mistook me for Heidi Some-Supermodel-Or-Other on the cover of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
“Mama! Mama!” she said, pointing to the picture of Heidi. (Whoa, baby - time for the eye doctor!)
No, Laura. I was not, am not tall. I was not, am not leggy. And I was not, am not Heidi. Probably the only thing I have in common with said Heidi is a pulse and a bi-monthly appointment with a hair-colorist.
Fast forward, six or so years later. My son was three, and cuddled on my lap. I asked him about his love life.
“So who’s your girlfriend these days, Levi?” I asked.
“YOU’RE my girlfriend, Mommy,” he said. All big, serious brown eyes.
Ahhh, the Good Ole Days. Now? What do I get from my darling cherubs? Ridicule and mockery for not dancing like a complete, utter hussy. Nice!
Hmmm. Speaking of complete and utter hussies, I have to wonder - WWBD? What Would Brittany Do in situations like these? After all, Brit’s a dancer and a mother of two, too.
Let’s see…WWBD? First, she’d drive to her concert, sans skivvies, with her toddlers on her lap. For show-time she’d slither, strut and swagger stagewide. No doubt a stripper pole would be molested. Dance moves meant for a nudie-bar, not the eyes of 200,000-plus admiring tweens…
Wait a minute. Brittany Spears?! WTH, I mean heck, is wrong with me?! Things are pretty bad when you’re considering old Bare-Butt-Brit for parenting and/or dancing advice.
No thanks. I’ll stick to my 80s gyrations. After all, my moves embarrass my kids. That’s Motherhood. And that’s entertainment - Old Lady style.
Dawn Weber is a Brownsville writer, wife and mother of two pre-teens who commutes daily to Columbus for her full-time job.