Skip to main content

Dance Club for Moms

Yesterday as I was driving, I had the most glorious fantasy that I just have to share with you. You know when your mind wanders and takes you out of your smelly van and into a land far, far away? I was far, far away, until “Cherry Bomb” came on the CD and ripped my thoughts back to reality, and I started wondering what that song means. Because it’s my son’s favorite song now and I’m not sure if that makes me a bad parent or a good parent, and I might be able to discern that one way or another if I knew what they were singing in between ch-ch-ch-ch’s. I told him I think it’s about a popsicle, you know those Bomb Pops they sell in the cafeteria at school? I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s about.

But before the “Cherry Bomb” reality check, I was in a pretty deep fantasy about a dance club for moms. Let me set the scene for you.

You’re going about your morning with kids in tow, when you feel like you just can’t hold it in any more. You’re listening to DJs on the radio talk about The Big Event that everyone went to and how amazing it was and you think, “I couldn’t stay awake past 10pm if someone fed me chocolate and paid me to.” And finding a babysitter and driving all the way into the city to hang out with women half your age wearing dresses you could only fit one thigh into sounds less than empowering.

But you still need to let the rhythm take control. You’re so excited you just can’t hide it. You worry that you’ll be in this van for the rest of all eternity, when it hits you: Dance Club for Moms.

“It’s your world and I’m just a squirrel

Tryin’ to get a nut to move your butt

To the dance floor.” – C+C Music Factory

It’s like the gym, but with zero workout equipment and you can do whatever you want. You park next to all the other minivans and shuffle your crew into the KidZone, where a cadre of highly-trained, fun-but-not-too-fun childcare workers with fifty layers of background checks usher your children into a room filled with toys, a ginormous ball pit, and most-importantly, sound-proof walls.

And then you strut out on the dance floor filled with moms in yoga pants and slippers shaking their booties. Dance Club for Moms is come-as-you-are. Moms are getting down to “It Takes Two to Make a Thing Go Ri-ight” with no makeup and top buns on fleek.

One mom breaks out her Running Man while another one tries to do The Worm but is thwarted by her nursing bra popping a hook. But she’s up and dancing again. There’s no shame at Dance Club for Moms (DCFM).

In the corner, you discover an all-you-can-drink latte bar with a row of cereals a la your college dining hall. You can sit and eat all the sugar you want without having to share. And then after you’ve fueled up, it’s back on the dance floor so Kris Kross can make you “Jump Jump.”

And when you’ve had enough, you shower in the locker room, grab your kids, and walk back to your van like it never happened, because what happens at DCFM stays at DCFM. If you run into your dance buddies at preschool pickup, you do not refer to the incident where someone may have grabbed the hot mic and gotten a bit emotional during “Eternal Flame.” You give a nod of respect, knowing you’ll see each other again tomorrow during “Love Shack.”

This was my fantasy while driving, until “Cherry Bomb.” What was that song about and should it be my son’s favorite? Don’t answer that.

I stopped for gas and my reverie was broken by the pump asking if I wanted a receipt. I always take a receipt at the gas pump because I feel like it sends a strong message to the pump to charge me correctly, like I’m the kind of person who pays attention and will notice if the pump gets frisky with my card number. I take a receipt and I keep a sharp watch on things, so move it along, buddy. This is how I’ll survive the rise of the machines when they become self-aware and try to destroy us. They won’t mess with me, because I’m a responsible receipt-taker…

Which is how my mind shifted from underground dance parties to sentient computers.