The boys are both down for naps after a marathon tantrum (Sam) on the way home that only a half hour of The Singing Babies could cure. I don't understand the appeal of digitally altered babies lip synching to Row Row Row Your Boat, but whatever it is, Sam and John are completely and utterly sucked in.
There's been a lot of dancing around here--to Singing Babies and otherwise. Yesterday, Sam and John sat in the backseat rocking out to Sean Kingston's "Shorty Fire Burnin' On the Dance Floor." It was one of those moments where I happened to glance in the rear view mirror just in time to see them grab hands, giggle, and do a toddler version of the "Night at the Roxbury" head bob dance. John's a dancing fool. Put music on--any music--and his little butt starts twitching. Several years ago my Aunt Rhonda bought Sam and after-Easter clearance sale duck that stomps around to Camptown Races and the last time we were in Asheville, the boys even made up a duck waddle dance to that.
They are officially both at a great age. At the same time. Together.
My heart soars.