Ten years ago Jason performed the wedding ceremony for one of his best high school buddies. It was a beautiful ceremony.

The reception was equally exceptional. I accepted every appetizer the server offered including seconds on the mini quiches that came back around for re-runs. 

That wasn't my only unbecoming behavior. There was a grand dance floor that I'd determined not to set foot on. 

...That is until my ten year old scooted his seat back from the table and walked around to where I was. I imagine I was just about to put the sixth hors d'oeuvre in my mouth when he extended his hand and said 

"Dance with me mama". 

As lovestruck as I was at the notion of dancing with my son, I wasn't sure I wanted to dance in front of all those people. 

I'd never danced, outside my feeble attempt at the two-step at my high school prom. 

I'd look ridiculous 

But he was inistent so

I was willing. 

We danced, my son and I.

 I'm sure he stepped on my feet and I likely stepped on his, not including the times I side-stepped in a narrow miss. There were assuredly moments our movements were out of sync, our steps hardly familiar to common choreography. Maybe we were unsightly for a turn.  But we danced.  

Now ten years later I understand that the dance is less about the proper steps than it is the holding of his hand; those few precious, close moments on the dance floor. 

Yesterday I fussed at all three of my kids. I'm convinced they deserved most of what I said. It was a tacky tango. 

The youngest didn't make it past 7AM before I snatched her kindle from her (a discipline measure barely short of a death sentence). She had responded to a question with a huffy "Got it!",  whereas I've given adequate training as to a more appropriate response "Yes ma'am" or "I understand" (without the eye roll). 

There was a frustrating exchange with my teenage daughter too. An hour after I accused her of being the bossiest person I know I redacted my statement.  "You're probably just somewhere in the top ten ," I corrected myself, hoping our sense of humor could hijack the stressed conversation. 

I got on to our oldest in front of his buddies yesterday (when he wouldn't answer his phone) because he hadn't done what I'd asked yet. 

These are just a few of the simple mishaps of a twelve hour span yesterday.  I feel no shame in sharing them. There are worse parenting struggles I've encountered in time whose details reside in most tender parts of my heart. These difficulties include when your kid shuts you out. ...kid problems that you want to fix but you don't know how. ...kid struggles that you aren't fixing because you're distracted, overwhelmed or entirely too annoyed. Maybe you've had a season where you're completely broken concerning motherhood. 

Ecclesiastes 3:4 

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance...

Yes there will be those occasions, many of them, where our interaction with our children looks more like fumbling feet than dancing. One partner seems unwilling, wanting nothing more than to temporarily walk off the dance floor. 

May it not be us. 

There will be times we're painfully aware of fellow dancers who appear to have their steps down pat. 

May we mind our own steps; seeing beauty in our unique rhythm. 

Let us remember that dancing is an art of grace; where mother and child both misstep and then forgive. 

May we treasure those moments where our kids have more faith in us than we have in ourselves. May we learn to have a little faith in ourselves knowing the creator of the dance is alongside us. 

 Be willing. Show grace. Be grateful. Take delight. 

Dance with your children. 

The invitation is only open for a time.