Last night was the traditional Sixth Grade Spaghetti Supper and Dance. It's their first dance EVER so they invite sixth graders and their parents to eat pasta and then the kids go have the dance in the gym while the parents socialize in the cafeteria (remember when it was Maddy's turn?). Dance training wheels. Kids run in and out, chatting with parents and going back, and parents sneak in to the dance to watch and embarrass their kids. It's a win/win (or maybe a win/lose in the parents' favor, depending who you ask).
We tried to sneak a peak at Sam but couldn't find him in the 11+12-year-old blob. There was lots of chasing going on, and I mean literal running after each other, playground style. And it smelled like teen spirit. But our spy assignment failed.
Later on the ride home we tried to get details.
"How was it?" Fine.
"Did you dance?" Yes.
"Who did you dance with?" Friends.
"Did you slow dance?" No.
Then, as we pulled into the driveway Sam forgot his one-word policy. As he got out of the car we hit gold, information wise.
"Ouch! My knees hurt from doing the air guitar slide during 'Don't Stop Believing.'"
Ohhhh, so that's how he rolls.