This weekend, I went to a friend’s wedding with a very special date. No, not my beautiful wife, but my 18-month-old son.
Faith was the photographer for the joyous occasion, so she left Adlai and me to our own devices to get ourselves dressed and ready. I wore a shirt and tie; he wore a fancy jumper and his dancing shoes.
It’s a good thing he wore those dancing shoes, too, because come the evening do, he was ready to party. That’s right – my son stayed up way past his bedtime. He’s normally out by 7, but Faith and I figured this special occasion was a good reason to keep him up a bit late and let him enjoy some wedding cake and a boogie.
And he really enjoyed it.
He was out on the dance floor by 8pm, sweaty, stripped down to his vest and making eyes at the bride’s nieces, who seemed more than happy to swing him round a time or two. Yes, he had a brilliant time, and when I carried him to the car over my shoulder, he reached back toward the dance floor with a look in his eyes that said he still had a few dances left in him.
As it was 9:30, Faith and I did not agree.
The night was a success though, and he wasn’t bothered at all that we’d kept him up more than two hours past his bedtime. He didn’t even mind when I got him all the way home, realized I’d left my house key at the hall, and had to drive all the way back.
I’m pretty sure when we pulled back up to the church he thought we were going back in for another turn round the dance floor. I hated to break it to him, but he was asleep by the time we got back home, anyway. The poor little fella had danced himself right out.