I have a habit of having really stupid accidents.
And embarressing myself. I’m good at that.
The other day I was dancing around the living room. My kids were eating their dinner and enjoying the spectacle of their Mummy dancing, totally uninhibited as the music touched my soul and took over my limbs.
Gazelles would be shamed by the gracefulness of my leaps.
Whirling Dervishes would be no match for the awesomeness of my whirling.
Spicing it up, I added an Irish jig to my repertoire that would have scored me an instant spot in Riverdance.
Oh yes, I was on fire.
As I contemplated taking my one woman dance extravaganza on a World tour, disaster struck. My graceful leap ended not with a light touch down followed by a pirouette as planned, but with a scream, roll onto the floor clutching my foot and sobs of pain.
Oh you professional dancers think you’re so tough, but I’m reserving judgement until I see you dance in a room where children have left toys lying around.
The offending object was triangular, sharp and got me right in the arch of my foot.
My children’s cheers of delight were replaced with concern as their mother huddled on the floor blubbering. They rushed over to give me hugs, and Miss 2 even tried to kiss my foot better. It was already turning purple.
As my dreams crashed around me, Master 3 took my face in his hands, looked me deeply in the eye and said, “I don’t think you should dance to the Wiggles again Mummy”.