I was putting gas in my car over the weekend, when I looked up and saw a woman wearing a shirt that said, “I’m with stupid,” like the one pictured at right. My first thought was to grab my phone and take a picture. I wanted to immediately share this visual with my siblings. It would be a wildly funny text. An inside joke. But, given that the woman wearing the shirt was standing like, four feet in front of me, I fought the paparazzi impulse and returned to my car.

Thankfully, my son, David was in the passenger seat. So I went into storytelling mode, hoping my enthusiastic sharing of memories, would feel as good as snapping a picture and texting the details.

You see, I’ve seen this shirt before – on one of my siblings. In fact, I think I played a role in selecting the shirt for said sibling’s wardrobe. If that wasn’t bad enough, I recall adding a J.J. Walker hat to complete the look. It’s true. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this. I mean, it seems logical to me. You might think it’s a little bit cuckoo. Off center. Not that funny.

Anyway, when I was in seventh grade, I was responsible for watching my three youngest siblings while my mom was at work. My only charge was to make sure they didn’t get hurt. Sounds simple enough, right? Yeah, well – it was far from simple for this nervous Nelly. (Refer to my blog post, “It’s Just a Rash,” for more on my worrisome ways.) You see, we’re talking about ensuring the safety of a little brother, who at age 2, fell and hit his head on an iron planter. In front of a seasoned babysitter. While my mom was still in the house. The subsequent gash on his head required several stitches. This same brother also slipped and fell playing dodge ball at school once. A trip to the doctor on that occasion revealed a mild concussion. We’re also talking about corralling a younger sister, who at around age 4 was supposed to be napping when she removed the chimney from a metal dollhouse and gave herself a “shot” in the knee. Can you say four stitches? So you see, in reality, there was nothing at all simple about this task.

What to do? What to do? Cover them with bubble wrap? Lock them in their rooms?

Initially, I had no idea. Literally, none. Nada. Zero. For many of you younger folks, this will be a difficult concept to grasp. You’re probably thinking to yourselves, “Hello? Disney Channel!” But we’re talking 25+ years ago, well before Jessie, Phineas and Ferb, iPads, cell phones, Nintendos, etc. We were still writing on slate. Not really. I think we had pens and paper. We definitely didn’t have a home computer, nor the Internet. So I couldn’t just browse a few “Ideas for Keeping Young Siblings Busy” boards on Pinterest. And there definitely wasn’t an opportunity to Google, “how to occupy young children until mom comes home.”

I was stumped.

We didn’t have cable TV. DVR technology was not yet invented. So I couldn’t even rely on the hypnotic effects of the boob tube. After one episode of Gilligan’s Island and maybe a few minutes of Zoom, the natives would start getting restless.

Long story short, it was completely up to me to develop a creative strategy to keep my siblings busy and safe. It’s a scary thought, but I had to rely on my own pea brain for the precise approach. I don’t know where I came up with this idea, but when they were around first and second grade, I decided I would make them dance. I would choreograph some basic routines to tunes by the Bee Gees, Heatwave, Midnight Star or whatever other 45s I had laying around, teach them the moves and then make them rehearse over and over and over again until the clock struck 5:30 p.m. or my mom got home – whichever came first.

In retrospect, this was a pretty good method for keeping three kiddos in line, for two main reasons. First, because I made sure every dance was a group effort, no one was wandering off doing who knows what sort of dangerous thing. There would be no running around with scissors or crossing one’s eyes (because you know they can freeze that way). Second, because I didn’t really know what the heck I was doing, the technical difficulty of the dances was close to a 1 or 2. There were no jumps or lifts or splits and therefore very little risk for injury. Phew!

For whatever it’s worth, my younger siblings were pretty good performers. One year, they took their routine on the road and performed in the school talent show. That’s when they wore the J.J. Walker hats and the silly t-shirts. (In my defense, I had no budget. And I never claimed to be a costume designer or stylist. I was a simple choreographer.)

Anyway, they did really well in the show. I think they came in second to a kid telling jokes with a bag over his head (he called himself the Unknown Comic).

Everyone loved watching them dance, especially my mom. On occasion, my siblings would perform their latest dance routine as soon as my mom got home from work. She loved every moment of these performances. Loved. Loved. Loved them. I used her joy to my advantage. Every once in a while, when these little dancers tried to opt out of learning a new routine, or complained about being too tired, I would bring the ugly big sister pressure, “So you know how much mom loves to see you dance. And you’re telling me you seriously don’t want to be part of that? Mom works soooooooooooooo hard and you don’t want to bring a smile to her face with this dance? Really?” Makes me cringe just typing the preceding. But it usually worked. Guilt was a beautiful thing for this then stressed out teen. Ugh. I think I owe my siblings an apology.

It was at this point in my story telling that I glance over at David and observe that he has this blank look on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was horrified – wondering if his fate would at some point place him on the dance floor when he’d rather be playing a game of Minecraft. Or perhaps he was in disbelief – doubting my assertion that when I grew up we didn’t have iPads, Nintendos or cellphones. I asked him to share his thoughts and his response was simple, “That’s really weird, mom.”

Yeah, it probably was really weird. But it was also quite fun. There was a lot of laughter in between the introduction of each new dance step. And again, it met my ultimate goal. It kept them safe.

You see, you’ll do just about anything to protect and care for the people you love. You’ll dance. You’ll choreograph. You’ll have your creative differences. You’ll compromise. You’ll do the best you can with the knowledge and experience you have at the time. You’ll do better as you get older. You’ll apologize when you fall short.

And, you’ll smile when you see someone wearing a shirt that says, “I’m with stupid,” because it will remind you of the people you love – people who in spite of all of your weirdness always love you right back.