Dance, Baby, Dance

Pixie is 15 months old, which means that very knowledgeable people with many letters after their names think she absolutely ought not to watch a minute of television for another 9 months. Fortunately for them, Pixie doesn’t really like television. Pixie likes books (for eating), cheese cubes (for throwing), and her very own playhouse that looks suspiciously like my dog’s spare travel crate.

Momma would like Pixie to maybe, just possibly, stop grabbing the tail on the cat that’s easily overexcited (the cat that’s most likely to bite and scratch Pixie’s pretty little nose) and watch Sesame Street for all of two-point-five minutes while Momma does the dishes, folds the laundry, washes diapers, feeds the dogs, makes Pixie’s lunch, remembers to eat, dusts the bookshelves, and sweeps all the dog hair up off the floor. In two-point-five minutes, because that’s all the time Momma has right now.

Her longest stretch of watching Sesame Street is approximately 58 continuous seconds. And since I’m not into the sport of Competitive Parenting, I’ll let you know right now that I don’t care if you followed every AAP recommendation ever thought of and your child didn’t get to watch a nanosecond of television until they were 18. And your house was always spotless and company-ready. Don’t. Care.

Tonight, we discovered, by accident, a show that our baby actually likes.

Glee.

If you’ve been living under a rock, Glee is about a high school glee club, which means that there is lots of singing and lots of impromptu dance numbers. The Hubbles and I have gotten sucked into it during the summer re-runs going on now, and Pixie stayed up late tonight and watched a couple episodes with us.

She, the child who does not like television, does not simply watch Glee. She dances. She scooters up onto Momma’s lap, throws her arms out, and just bops along, transfixed. It looks a little like this:

Why is my child not wearing pants? I dunno. It was a birthday party.

Now that, baby, is entertainment.