My three boys had a Dance Party in the living room tonight.

So that’s two pipsqueak preschoolers whose bodies move just the slightest bit faster than their brains and their gallumphing fifth grade brother who has NO IDEA where his limbs end. It was, in short, hilarity on a stick with a side of caramel corn.

There were pretty ballerina moves.

There were break-dance inspired butt spins.

There was an epic Boxing Karate Ninja Wrestler Smackdown during which one boy child wielded a plastic gun and one mama shrieked, “No guns during dance parties!” Because every mama knows that if you lose the “no guns at all, ever” war, you must always thereafter shriek pointless gun rules like, “No guns during Boxing Karate Ninja Wrestler Smackdowns!” and “No guns in your pants!” and “No chewing your pizza into a gun!”

There was even an interpretive dance that involved the flinging and catching of an old crusty washcloth.  Personally, I like to think that bit was a lyrically expressive movement meant to depict the ever-industrious (yet enthusiastic) labor of the maternal figure.  Hey – a mama can dream, right?

Truly, though, it was a beautiful evening to celebrate the arts.

One boy conked his head on the floor.

One bit his tongue.

And one nicknamed himself “Krystal the Really Good Dancer.”

My son, Cai Krystal, looked almost exactly like this.

Except that my 5-year-old baby boy was wearing short shorts, his main dance move was a full-arm Whack-a-Mole downswing, and his shirt was just small enough to play belly-button peek-a-boo.

Mothers of preschool ladies, I have hereby given fair warning.

My conscience is clear.