Skip to Content

Where the Wild Things Are

Let the Rumpus BeginAs the clock ticked out the time, my boys and I would eagerly await Dad’s departure for work. As soon as his car had exited the driveway, we’d set sail closing the blinds. We’d push aside the couch then don our gold lame. An emergency flashlight hanging from the ceiling stood in as a strobe light. We’d put in our Disco Revolution CD, and one by one – and occasionally all together – we’d act out every song.  It was our tradition “through night and day, in and out of weeks,” and far into their teen years. I didn’t scream (too loud) when the Disco Kid’s exuberant jumps broke the couch frame. When my hubby asked what happened to the lamp I didn’t tell him how it hadn’t survived Gloria Gaynor’s twirls.  We roared our terrible voices and danced our (somewhat terrible) dances in a rumpus worthy of Max and his Wild Things.   It was our time. And occasionally, when Dad is gone, someone will still whisper, “Let the Wild Rumpus Begin.” And so it does.

This post appears on Little One Books website where I am a Guest Blogger

error: Content is protected !!