When I Wobble

Dancing with my daughter

on a Friday home from work

She laughs

You look like a wobbly jelly

Like a wobbly daddy

I'm at my happiest when I wobble

I spin surprisingly successfully on my heel

She follows with a three-sixty jump

of toddler proportions

Her joy is more rigid

but enviably more pure

My thirteen year old son cringes from the couch

though there are still times he lets his guard down

He looks tellingly at the turned-off TV

Beads of sweat where her hair is clipped down

Ponytail a twirling celebration of its own

and her entire face in the making of a smile