The 10 year old and 6 year old went to their first dance. They spent the interval between school and the dance preparing: sparkly dresses, colored chapstick, body glitter (where did that come from?). On the way to the car, they held hands and looked like the picture I had in my head before my children were born but which rarely materializes. Once at the dance, they learned the chicken dance, the electric slide, slow dancing and they took pictures. With their Dad, because this was a school sponsored Daddy Daughter Dance. He took them to Dairy Queen for Blizzards afterward, and so it was the perfect date. Hal wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, but if he could have seen their 3 hour-long preparations, he would have done anything, even watch Hotel For Dogs for the 3rd time, in order to keep the magic alive.
Normally, I don’t do school events outside of regular class time. I hate science fairs, spaghetti dinners make me feel queasy inside, and the thought of purchasing a raffle ticket for a basket of crap I didn’t want in the first place makes as much sense as using baking soda as a sink freshener. “Open box. Pour entire box down drain.” Next week, our church is sponsoring a Daddy Daughter Enchilada and Game night, free of charge. There seems to be a theme running through the institutions: get Dads involved. For Hal’s part, he doesn’t need encouragement, and I wonder about some of the girls I know who don’t have male role models willing to attend these sorts of things. But, other than spending a magical evening with Prince Charming, my daughters got to see something else I want them to see: other girls, with their Dads, doing the same thing.
Besides, I’m always up for a night on the town—for them, not me. I like home. Home is nice. Home is safe. Home means pajamas and TV.