Granted it’s a catchy tune. It’s one of those songs that gets in your head and nests there. Buries itself in the confines of your grey matter and has you singing and humming it to yourself 5,000 times a day. And that number increases exponentially if you have a toddler who is compelled to listen to it over and over and over again.

I love turning on the music and dancing with Will. There’s something so liberating about watching a little kid cut loose without an ounce of shame or timidity. And when he does it, I follow suit. Enjoy the video, paying special attention to the end where he gets tangled up in the curtains.

But the cuteness-packed video only tells half the story.

After my cell phone camera stopped rolling we continued to dance. And dance hard. I picked him up and put him on my shoulders. I held his hand and swung him around the room. We chased each other and ran like crazy people. We giggled and cavorted and laughed hysterically.

Until I slipped and fell.

It was when I stepped on the tile by the front door. And my foot slipped. Because I stepped in something. Something wet. Then I fell down. And what I landed in was also wet. And smelly.

I think you all know where this is going…

Will is mostly potty-trained. He’ll pee in the toilet approximately 93% of the time. The remaining 7% takes place when he has to poop. No matter what we do he will not stop crapping in his underwear. And when he goes #2, he also lets #1 leak out. Such was the case before our little dance party, only I didn’t realize his fire house had inadvertently poked out the side of his underwear and let loose a stream of piss that I failed to notice.

But I noticed it plenty while I was sitting in it.

Oh well, the dancing was worth it. Plus it’s all fun and games until someone falls in a puddle of their kid’s urine. Right?

One such flaw of mine is the dreaded White Man’s Shuffle in place of actual dance moves. While I learned at an early age I would never be dancing with the stars, I hoped against hope my darling son might somehow be blessed with Fred Astaire-esque fleetness of foot. I happily dreamed of Will being the star of his middle school dances, surrounded by girls chanting “Go Will, Go Will!” as he busted some sweet moves and cut a few rugs. Hell, I would’ve settled for the Napoleon Dynamite dance.

Alas, it is not to be. The following video proves my little guy is damn cute for sure, but his geeky dancing is sure to get him exiled to the uncertainty of the far wall at dances. And not to spoil it, but make sure you watch til the end.

She went out with two of her friends to this fantastic restaurant called the Brazilian Grill. They serve Churrasco a Rodizio which means Rotisserie Barbecue, and basically that translates into an endless supply of every kind of mouth-watering meat imaginable. Not to mention MJ and the girls also savor the Brazilian hunks of man meat serving them the food as well.

The plan was a good one because the restaurant is less than a half mile from the newspaper’s main office, and I work until 11 p.m. on Saturday nights. So we had our cousin babysit Will, and I told her to let loose and drink as much as she wants because I’d just meet her after my shift ended and be her designated driver.

Bad idea.

You see, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Because if I was paying attention, I would’ve remembered there is nothing more dangerous and intimidating than being the stone cold sober husband walking into a group of girls who are loaded and have been sharing stories with each other for hours.

They weren’t quite done with their night when I met up with them at a local bar, so I volunteered to hang out until they wanted to go home. Big mistake. I knew I was in trouble right away because after I finished saying hello to everyone, they immediately went right back to the conversation that was in progress before my arrival. So for the next five minutes, I tried to contain my shock when they talked intimately about g-spots. Where they’re located, how guys have trouble finding them and a detailed recounting of their best g-spot related encounters.

But what was really shocking for me was listening to a conversation between MJ’s friends about how their husbands expected them to be home already. One was supposed to bring her husband dinner, but decided to stay out late with MJ instead. The other was in the same boat. Then, one of them said something I will never forget.

“Yeah, he’s pissed at me tonight. I’m gonna have to perform for him tonight to make up for it,” she said.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up the bus. I asked her if I heard her right and if she meant what I thought she meant by that. She nodded and said of course. That when she’s in hot water, she uses her sexual persuasions as currency. Her other friend concurred and said it’s common practice and the easiest way to get out of trouble immediately.

My head snapped around to MJ, who was giving the other two women the stink-eye and shouting “SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” with her eyes. Could this be true? Is it possible? Was I not aware of the unwritten rule that when the wife screws up, I’m supposed to reap the sexual benefits? I cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow, and gave MJ an inquisitive glance.

“Sssshhhhhh,” she told her friends. “He doesn’t know these things. Don’t put ideas in his head. Honey, forget you ever heard that.”

I was flabbergasted. Floored. Bamboozled even. All those times when MJ was legitimately in the dog house, it appears I was missing out on a husband’s God given right to make up lovin’! MJ told me to forget I ever heard the conversation, but that’s never gonna happen. This kind of life-altering accidental discovery is right up there with Scottish scientist Alexander Fleming, who accidentally discovered Penicillin because he was sloppy in his lab work and accidentally left a sample of Staphylococcus out in his work area. Asking me to forget that conversation is like telling the caveman who first saw fire to just put it out of his mind.

I feel like Jim Carrey in the movie “The Truman Show.” I’ve been kept in a protective bubble and only fed information others felt was necessary for me to have. I think I should be able to take this to a marital court of law and sue my wife. But instead of trying to get financial reparations, I’m seeking sexual backcharges. A judge or jury would sentence MJ to so many hours of sexual community service, only I’m the community.

As if MJ could sense every single thing I was thinking, she simply looked at me and said “Nope, don’t even think about it.”

The point is, nothing good comes out of being a guy and gaining a peek behind the curtain to see the great and powerful Oz. And on an unrelated note, it seems nothing positive comes out of being at a certain Hyannis bar around midnight on a Saturday night. A decent band was playing, but a 60-year-old woman who was flashing everyone in the bar tried to pull me out on the dance floor and would not let me go. Even when I was ridiculously insulting to her, she never relented. She asked why I wouldn’t dance with her and I told her I was far too sober for such an undertaking. Then she said it was for a bet, so I told her I’m a journalist and I’m not allowed to partake in illegal gambling, especially when the payoff is likely herpes. Eventually I simply hid behind MJ and shouted “HELP ME!”

So even though I’m not entitled to the same rights as other husbands out there, I want to say happy birthday to my lovely wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to Google “g-spot” to see what all this fuss is about.

I know what you’re thinking. “Aaron, you post pictures of yourself in a wife beater for a handful of people all the world to see on the Internet.” This is true, but the Web provides a certain layer of anonymity. Almost like it’s not really me doing it. But I’m talking about stepping out of my personal comfort zone. It’s just not something I do very often. Especially when it comes to — gulp — dancing.

I hated school dances because I suck at dancing. I am the White Man Shuffle, except I don’t even have that down. As I got older the school dances faded, but then everyone wanted to go clubbing. That was a nightmare for me. I hate techno music, I hate crowds and I hate trying to dance with strange women. I need to actually talk to a girl to know if I like her, and you can’t talk at those stupid clubs because of the music. And then after nightclubs there was weddings. It just goes on and on.

But this morning it’s just me and Will. After watching some of his favorite cartoons I was searching for something else on TV but it was slim pickings. Then I stumbled upon the country music channel blasting one of my favorite artists, Brad Paisley.

Will suddenly ceased his tornado-esque level of activity and just froze, staring at the screen. Soon a broad smile crept over his face and he began to rock back and forth on the couch. That rocking then turned to what I can only describe as toddler headbanging, as if he was in the car with Wayne and Garth listening to Bohemian Rhapsody.

I just started laughing hysterically watching him rock out like a mad man. Then he stopped for a second and looked at me like I had two heads, as if to say “How can you not dance to this music??” And I realized he was right.

So I picked him up and we danced like crazy. I don’t think it would’ve helped me move on to the next round in that dancing TV show and I sure as hell wasn’t dancing like a star, but I didn’t care. I was jumping around, singing, swinging him around like a ragdoll. And he absolutely loved it. He giggled harder than I’ve heard him laugh in a long time.

By the end of the song we were both out of breath. I just looked at him, smiling like a fool, and that’s when he turned his head and buried it in my chest while trying to wrap his arms around my shoulders.

Needless to say, there will be much dancing in my future. But I’m closing the shades…just in case!