Fatherhood has changed me in many ways, but perhaps none of these transformations is bigger than how it has inspired me to dance.

Allow me to clarify. First, I’m about as stiff and White as we dudes can come; it took me months to learn steps for our high school musicals, and my wife has likened me to a “rubber-band” on the dance floor. Second (and largely because comments like the aforementioned one), I have refused to dance in public for years; I didn’t even do it at my own wedding.

(I should note here that I did “dance” to “Cotton Eyed Joe” on my wedding day; this consisted of standing in one place on the dance floor and pointing into space while screaming, “Joe!”)

To summarize: I’m a terrible dancer and hate doing stuff at which I’m terrible.

Now, however, with L wiggling and shaking her little booty every time she hears music, all bets are off. Watching her bop makes it physically impossible NOT to move. Watching her point at you and implore you to dance with her complicates the situation even further.

And so instead of fighting it, I’ve embraced the challenge. Every time L implores me to dance, I oblige her. We jump. We wiggle. We shimmy. We look like rubber bands. And we don’t care.

This afternoon, for instance, we passed nearly two hours (yes, two hours) dancing to everything from Moxy Fruvous (her favorite), The Pogues (her second favorite), Simon & Garfunkel and Rusted Root. Of course we also dance nightly to the “South Pacific” soundtrack; thanks to my wife, this has become a critical part of the new post-tubby, pre-bed sequence.

All of this dancing is good for me. It’s fun. It makes me laugh. Most important, little L loves it (I’m sure she thinks it’s hysterical because even she knows I look like a rubber band).

Would I consider myself the next contestant for SYTYCD? Not on your life. But for the first time in this hopeless kid’s life, I’m busting moves, dear readers, and at least one tiny human enjoys every minute of it.