Dance Club Kids

Following in the Brittney Spears tradition, Adam and I decided to take the kids clubbing last Sunday. We headed for a bar in the city, got the kids liquored up, and then let them loose on the dance floor. Well, sort of. It was Baby Loves Disco, which is apparently making its way around the country. One afternoon a month, a club is opened for the toddler set, complete with tattooing (Doodles picked out a lovely triceratops tat for himself; since Pie couldn't seem to make up her mind, I chose her tattoo for her), "chill out" area with books and toys, egg shakers and scarves on the dance floor, and a spread that included organic cookies and juice boxes. It was a pleasant enough afternoon, although I wish the music had been a tad better.

Of course, the afternoon just highlighted the differences between my children. The minute Pie got downstairs, that little butt started its shake. She grabbed as many egg shakers as she could in her hands--and then tried to grab even more--and she tossed her chubby arms out and shimmied on the dance floor. She'd run and go crazy when the bubble machine went off and then shimmy a little more. And Doodles? He sat at the bar. For over an hour. Nursing a glass of water. And when it was time to go, we had to force him from his bar stool. Unfortunately, I fear that not much is going to change in the next 18 years: the vixen on the dance floor; the loner at the bar. God help me.