I trained for this night ever since the doctor said the scariest three words I’ve ever heard on July 26, 1999 . . . “It’s a girl!”
Like every father of a little girl, I too boasted about sawing off the barrels of my shotgun, locking my little girl in a tower surrounded by a gator-invested moat and basically turning into Dirty Harry at the mere mention of her ever dating. Then came her 11th birthday, the transition to middle school and, yes, her first dance.
So here I am, standing with a dozen or so other parents at said dance looking out for any funny business, but really just looking on in amazement. How in the heck did we get from delivery room to dance floor in what now feels like a nanosecond?
Middle school dances are actually just a bunch of sixth graders, a few seventh graders and about six eighth graders jumping around in a cafeteria. And the only funny business occurred when I had to get medieval on a couple of kids for hurdling a small wall. For all the build-up I gave it in my mind, it was really just a bunch of adults standing around and observing middle schoolers letting it all hang out. Here’s what I learned:
-Boys don’t have an issue with looking like complete fools on the dance floor at the age of 11. Maybe at 12 male pride will kick in, and they’ll just stand in the back and make fun of everyone else, but at 11 they’re busting a move without a care in the world. They’re dancing together because no 11-year-old girl would get within five miles of their sweaty, grungy selves, but they’re definitely dancing.
-Boys dress every day like I do on Saturday mornings: old T-shirt, gym shorts, athletic shoes or flip flops. Life is good. If this is what passes as dance attire for boys, coaches everywhere should rejoice. These guys looked like they were coming from basketball practice straight to the dance.
-Girls, as you might imagine, are just the opposite. I got first-hand experience at the wardrobe drama, pre-dance. And from the looks of things, most every little girl in attendance shopped at Aeropostale, American Eagle or Abercrombie the day before the big dance. Note to self: buy stock in aforementioned stores. They’re more popular than an army of Jonas Brothers.
-There’s tons of running. I’m shocked we didn’t see an accidental tackle or a head-to-head collision. I felt like a traffic cop vs. a bouncer (my preferred job title).
-Moms rule. I was one of only two dad volunteers. Of course, I realize the dads who couldn’t make it were likely watching a younger child or as one mom told me, her husband was cutting the grass. Yeah, that took him 15 minutes and then it was a quick call to Domino’s, his five best buddies and, voila! poker night. Hey, I don’t blame them a bit. I went partly to support my daughter and partly to make sure no boys came within the same zip code.
About that second part . . . the part about keeping boys out of my daughter’s immediate vicinity. The older I get, the more mellow and philosophical I become about this topic. A friend of mine just had a baby girl and I watch and listen to him go through the normal father-of-the-future-bride rituals just like I did. In reality though, I think I’ve crossed into uncharted territory. Over the past three months, my second baseman turned into a debutante. For the first time ever, she’s asking to go shopping for shoes, purses and other accessories. There are even negotiations going on about something called ear piercing. I’ve got no clue what that is, but it sounds painful.
Hey, it’s all painful. And great at the same time. I’m still very worried about her every move and still concerned about that first phone call from that first boy. But at least I’m in a happy place about the whole thing. Just don’t say the word “tattoo,” OK honey?
