On Friday night, I was blessed to experience my first-ever 'daddy-daughter dance' with my 6-year-old, "Penny." Put on by her brownie troop, I was looking forward to an evening of quality time with my little one. Undoubtedly, it would be filled with priceless moments as we gazed at each other adoringly, shared quality conversation, and I taught her the basic ballroom dance steps. The evening would strengthen our bond and guarantee stress-free teen years followed (much later) by her choosing a paradisiacal locale for me to spend my earthly twilight*. This was going to be an evening to remember.
My dreams were dashed the moment we entered the ballroom**. A professional DJ was playing upbeat, fast-paced modern dance and hip-hop tunes. My face turned ashen as I quickly grasped what was to be expected that evening. I was supposed exhibit suave, funky, and hip dance moves. If you fail to understand my plight, let me be clear: I have a large amount of Germanic heritage in me. Ingrained in my genetic code is the mandate to display little (positive) emotion and no 'funkiness' of any kind. In the motherland, such joyful acts are considered misdemeanors. My enthusiasm paled as my goal for the evening quickly shifted from 'enjoyment' to 'survival.'
My fears were, initially, somewhat alleviated by the appearance of other dads present. Not only did the majority look uncomfortable in a suit, some appeared to be work-from-home programmers who had little experience wearing clothing of any kind. The overall 'frumpiness' of the group, however, amused and distracted me for but a moment. Then my plight returned to the fore as the DJ started a new song and commanded us to rush the dance floor. I was thus abandoned to my fate; an undoubtedly ignominious end was forthcoming.
I focused on keeping the beat by swaying in time to the music. I can't dance, but at least I'd show them I had rhythm, darn it. I expertly shifted my weight from one foot to the other, at times even lifting my feet a few inches off the floor to show I could be cool and hip. My daughter, thankfully, didn't detect my deficiencies. She did, however, demand that we get in the very center of the floor and that I spin her around. I complied, being grateful for an opportunity, however fleeting, to drop all pretenses of dancing ability and focus on her. But in my haste, I didn't think it all the way through. As I spun her, the other dads cleared away. When we stopped, I gasped as I realized that we were not only in the center of the floor, we were now the ONLY people in a 5-foot radius of the center of the floor. And people were watching. Oh good. The evening was progressing nicely.
A few songs later, the DJ made us line up in two parallel lines on either side of the dance floor. She then asked that we, one couple at a time, dance down the middle of the floor for all to see. And guess who happened to be first in line? That's right. Penny and I got to show our complete lack of ability right in front of everyone. It was around that moment, when all appeared lost, that I mercifully came to a realization: my buffoonery was not unique. Nobody else could dance, either. To the outsider, we all appeared to suffer from mild seizures or medical conditions prohibiting fluid movement. In fact, the group of mothers in the back serving food were openly delighting in our collective discomfort. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all. Then, my daughter bolted.
Penny had spotted her friend, "Isabel," and happily scampered off with her. Isabel's dad and I were in close pursuit, but (I think) we were both secretly relieved to be free of the aforementioned expectations. We watched them from a few feet away as they did what (I suspect) most young girls do in such atmospheres: exhibit bizarre behavior and giggle constantly. Just as I relaxed, though, the girls pulled us into the fray.
Isabel asked her dad to slide her between his legs, then pull her out and throw her in the air. Penny, seeing this, demanded I do the same. This continued for what felt like hours, the sole respite being her occasional requests to spin her in a circle, before resuming the 'slide and throw' technique. I was exhausted, caked in sweat, and despairing of life when Penny finally took a break and got some food. She ate about half of her selected portion, then gave me the remainder to hold until such time as she required the rest. It was then that I realized my true role for the evening: I was to serve as both a jungle gym and personal servant, but little else.
There's not much left to say. Things continued in such fashion until Isabel had to leave. Penny, apparently incapable of going on without her, demanded we do the same; I was delighted to comply.
As we headed into the night, Penny thanked me for the evening. She liked spinning and sliding, the cookies, and seeing her friends. Though I didn't warrant a mention in the list of the evening's highlights, as I looked at my beautiful little one I realized something profound: I hope next time is a hike or something.
In all seriousness, my daughter is amazing, and I love spending time with her. Though the evening didn't go the way I expected- or wanted- it was still time with her. She'll move out some day, and likely forget all about this particular experience. But I won't- public embarrassment has a way of sticking in the mind.
*never forget that your children pick your retirement home. Ignore me at your peril.
**her elementary school's gym.
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