The Father / Daughter Dance

Tonight I had the pleasure of that singular event which all men who have little girls look forward to: the elementary school father / daughter dance -- an indescribable delight which I shall, nonetheless, attempt to describe.

It is an almost surreal sight: a crowded cafeteria, pink streamers and crimson balloons lashed to the stainless steel serving lines; garlands of red paper hearts dangle from the plexiglas sneeze guards, and dimply pink cupids festoon the shiny refrigerated milk carts. The tables are sprinkled with glossy little die-cut hearts and topped with tissue paper centerpieces.

A cadre of grown men wearing ill-fitting suits amble about looking supremely unconfident. With each of them is a princess bedecked in red velvet or pink chiffon, sparkly sequined ballet flats, and a beatific smile that says aren’t I fancy? -- a princess whose hand they gingerly clutch as they search about the room for clues of what to do. Each man and his princess wait in line for chocolate dipped strawberries, for red velvet cake, and they sit at long tables with giddy friends and clink their plastic cups of pink frothy punch.

In the middle of the room, by the DJ with his soundboard and the razzle dazzle disco lights, each of the fathers attempts hesitantly to dance with his little princess. I can throw a ball....I can yell from the sidelines...I can change the oil in my car....but how do I dance with this small vision of perfection and not let her know how terrified I am. He shuffles about uneasily, holding her hands and swinging her arms akimbo in some sort of delirious but indistinct jitterbug to the rhythm of a Katie Perry candyfloss.

And all is fine and awkwardly good until a slow country song with a heartfelt voice comes on. Stop. Pause. Then each commences a clumsy two step with his princess, swaying back and forth, smiling. On goes the song, the heartfelt singer...

“She would always be

playing Cinderella, riding her first bike--
bouncing on the bed, and looking for a pillow fight--
running through the sprinkler with a big Popsicle grin--
dancing with her dad, looking up at him...”

And slowly you see the jaws of grown men clench tight as the words sink in -- as they swing hesitantly to and fro, trying not to cry.