Creative Aging: Dancing With Toddlers

Editor’s note: Fifth in a series

This was more challenging and nerve-wracking than the many pressured years of preparing for new business pitches to all those Fortune 500 clients or multi-million dollar charitable foundations. 

I practiced over and over for the moment. I tortured myself with doubts and questions: Can two and three-year olds hold each other’s hands? Do they know right from left? Can they clap in rhythm? Can they kick their feet out? Can they turn in a circle? What simple dance will I teach? Oh no, none of the dances I know are right for this age group. I need to make up steps they can do. I’m not a choreographer. What the hell did I get into here? 

It was my youngest grandson Max’s Shabbat at Temple Israel of Hollywood. Max Wexler. I know. Sounds like he should be my grandfather, not my grandson. You go tell my son Micah and his wife Shawna. Because I can’t say a word to any of our kids about how they parent. 

Now that I no longer have to dash out of family events to meet with clients, I volunteered one of my past professional skills — teaching Israeli folk-dancing. The problem was that I hadn’t done it in years. And I had never taught toddlers. Oh, and did I mention that I am now the owner of a 71-year-old body and that no matter how much yoga I do, it doesn’t move like it did at 20? 

I thought about walking away from this foolish notion that I could still do this. But Max already knew that Grampa Baig was coming to class to teach a dance and he was very excited. That’s what Max calls me. I’m really Grampa Gabe. I chose that name because my Hebrew name is Gavriel. And I figured with the alliteration, the grandkids would remember the name easily. But Max transposes the letters. Alliteration isn’t working for him. 

So Grampa Baig began to go out into the backyard weeks before to practice for Max’s class. I turn the Israeli music on the speakers and start jumping and circling the deck. I’m sure the neighbors peeking over the fence and through the bushes were wondering if this crazy old man had forgotten to take his meds. But then, the tortured questions about toddler movement capabilities began. 

Petrified that I’m going to fail in front of Max, I called my friend, Bonnie Vorspan, who runs toddler programs.

 “Gary, just teach them to dance ‘Uga, Uga, Uga.‘ (‘Cake, Cake, Cake,’ in Hebrew)

 “I don’t know ‘Uga, Uga, Uga.’”  

“March them in a circle and then have them bend their knees. Then march in the other direction. They can do that. You can do this.”

 “I don’t have the music to ‘Uga, Uga, Uga.’”  

“All the dances are on Youtube. Every dance you ever did is now on Youtube with the music.” “Oh.” 

I tried it out in the backyard. I hated “Uga, Uga, Uga.” Besides, in this generation where parents are sugar-phobic and don’t let their kids eat an M&M, who wants them dancing to “Cake. Cake. Cake” no matter what language it’s in? 

I’m a nervous wreck as Grampa Baig and Grammy, my wife Dana, arrive at Max’s Shabbat. I put on one of the old stand bys—”Nigun Atik,” for which I had rejiggered the dance. I get fifteen two and three-year olds holding hands. We march in a circle. We clap. We turn around. We march the other way. We bring the circle in. We pull it out. We start over again.

The toddler clients show more enthusiasm and appreciation than all the Fortune 500 clients, charitable foundations and nonprofits ever did. 

The toddler clients show more enthusiasm and appreciation than all the Fortune 500 clients, charitable foundations and nonprofits ever did. Those big clients never once fell down laughing and rolling on the floor.  And their senior management never lauded me in the way all the mommies and daddies did through their WhatsApp group, asking Micah and Shawna “Who is Grampa Baig and when is he coming back?” 

“Tell them it’s Grampa Gabe,” I said.  Then I thought about working with tech, banking and soft drink clients, and then working with Max and his toddler classmates. “Tell them I will come back. Because this is the most important profession I’ve ever had.”

Gary Wexler woke up one morning and found he had morphed into an old Jewish guy.