Tonight was our local Daddy-Daughter Dance. Since my daughter was freshly five this has been an annual tradition, one that I dread even while I know how important it is to her now and how much more important it will be to me later.
If you haven’t been to one of these rituals in the suburbs, it is a rainbow of colorful-dressed little girls from five to twelve-ish, younger boys in their Sunday-best trousers belted painfully above their belly buttons, dads and moms in suits, sweaters, dresses and jeans. Hair is crimped, curled, bobbed, scattered, slicked, parted, sprayed, gelled.
Rhythm spans the spectrum, but 90% of the people have lovingly left their comfort zones to find their inner child or entertain their own child. I am one of the shy, putting on dancing legs as levers to pry my daughter from self-consciousness, wondering if she notices. Over the years it has improved for both of us. We finally found fun in laughing at one another, imagining how much more silly we’d look were we not dancing together. We also watched the wallflower fathers having conversations, undoubtedly of sports or business, while their daughters dance in a pack. Trying to match their hand gestures and mouth movements to the hip-hop songs makes for a good, out-of-place laugh between us.
Then the clock strikes 8:30 and the real reason I dread this night is upon me as the DJ announces the last song. Each year, Bob Carlisle slays the room with “Butterfly Kisses”, the ballad of a daughter growing up and away. The dancefloor has thinned for bedtimes, moms and sons, leaving a smattering of daddies and their little girls clinging, swaying. Little stocking feet stand on large, black and brown loafers. A dad or two holds a daughter in each arm. My own set of little blond curls, much closer to my chin than in years before, rests snuggly on my tie. With a clinched jaw, I look around the room one last time before finding a spot on the floor to stare at for composure. Of all these rhythmically-challenged, macho, short, tall, wide, and thin men, it turns out I’m not the only one with red, wet eyes. I suppose I’m not the only one who is now dreading this could be his last daddy-daughter dance.
“For all that I’ve done wrong, I must have done something right…to deserve her love in the morning and butterfly kisses at night.” (from Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle)
Good God Walt, way to tear me up on a Sunday morning, loved it!
And what of the Mommy-Son dance, that is still taking place every night as I “stand outside the fire” and pray my grown young son a sweet Good-night? Thanks for the essay, Walt, and thanks for being there to hold her in the cusp of your heart, right where each one of us little women wants to be! You ARE a gentleman and a scholar, thanks be to God!!
Great reflections. Memories made that will be become precious as time marches on. She will always be your little girl.
Tears come easily after something like this. Memories of a daughter – and two sons – grown and gone before either parent is ready to give up the butterfly kisses. The residual joy is that one can live to have grandchildren and have a second chance at the same happiness, joy, amazement at development, growth, and many, many more times for “red eyes”. And to top it all, one’s children grow up to recognize how precious these moments are and even to write about them ! Somebody must have done something right !
Walt, I finally got to some past emails and I was glad I got to yours. My own daughter is 19, though we didn’t do the daddy/daughter dance, we had some fun times having tea parties under the weeping willow, playing with boxes, and crying over kitties that didn’t survive living by a busy road. She is a joy and I have many great memories that are still mounting up. Thanks for letting me stop and think about these joys.