Friday, November 04, 2005


Wiggle Night in Ottawa

It wasn't so much that I forked over nearly $200 to watch the Wiggles, as it was I forked over $200 to watch my kids watch the Wiggles. And you know what?

It was worth every penny.

Our seats were toward the back of the floor section, but right on the aisle. Which was a good thing, because Simon did not spend a moment actually sitting in his chair. I wish I could find a way to stream the video I took of him dancing his little heart out in the aisles, in the lovely way not-quite-two-year-olds heave themselves back and forth to the music.

I was just barely quick enough to catch a three second video of the moment Jeff Wiggle (the sleepy guy in purple) came down our aisle and right past an astonished Simon. The look on Simon's face is truly priceless. (Anybody know how I might somehow stream some short video clips through Blogger?)

Simon has always been the real Wiggles fan, so I was thrilled to see Tristan dancing and singing along as well. He was mostly content to sit or stand in his Daddy's lap, while Simon danced up the aisles and wandered around the sound crew, saying hello to the security staff.

Toward the end of the night, for what turned out to be the finale, I gave up trying to corral Simon and brought both boys right down to the stage. It was a gorgeous chaos of excited preschoolers, who seem to be all standing stock still in this photo, but were in fact a darting, dancing, singing mass of highly torqued munchkins.

This last one is my bad mommy picture. It's not a very good photo, but you can just see the beginnings of an "oh no you don't" expression on Anthony Wiggle's face. That would be the look he is shooting my son as Simon lifts the curtain hanging over the edge of the stage and contemplates diving underneath while his inattentive mother snaps photos in blissful oblivion.

Yes, a Wiggles not only noticed, but disciplined my child. How's that for a claim to fame? It's almost as exciting as the time when, at the tender age of 15, Corey Hart sprayed me (and about a thousand other overwrought teeny-boppers) with a garden hose at a particularly steamy July concert.

I didn't actually catch most of the concert myself, but would pay the $200 again in a heartbeat to see my boys dancing together, their little faces bright with excitement. Through the whole night, there was not a single tantrum, not a single tear, not even a defiant word. And they didn't even fall asleep on the car ride home.

How could it get any better than that?