A little backstory: The first time my son, Will, ever heard me swear, it was not the giant F-bomb he picked up — or repeated, at least. What he immediately took to is what we very straightforwardly dubbed The Stubbed Toe Dance. That dance has carried on and now, in that taboo kind of way, bears no known association with its origin; ironically, it’s just something you do when you’re in a good mood. Like when point A is the living room and point B is a snack in the kitchen — a good Stubbed Toe Dance appropriately connects those points.

Or like when you see birds out the window on an early spring morning: