Dance lesson from my daughters
Our town has a rich tradition of father-daughter dances. Each February dads and daughters of all ages get dressed up and attend a Butterfly Kisses dance. For too long I’ve observed them from a distance. I unfairly assumed those evenings were so dads could “check the intentional dad box” and sleep well knowing their annual duty. was complete. I realize my self-righteous judgment here is palpable and distasteful.
After further thinking, I wonder if some of my skepticism was fueled by a bitter taste towards dances. I remember standing nervously in my middle school gymnasium (looking like an absolute boss, I might add) in my navy Union Bay sweater vest and tan corduroy pants, knowing any attempt at dancing would instantly shatter any coolness I had accumulated.
In high school it was only slightly better. I finally broke through my preoccupation with self image and at my junior prom and danced like no one was watching. The irony of course being, no one was actually watching me. I wore my grandfather’s pure wool pinstriped suit from the 1950’s. I didn’t realize it really was a furnace disguised as fashion. Part way through the dance I took off my suit coat and found my light blue dress shirt oddly darkened around my armpits and chest.
“Dude, did you spill water on your shirt?” a buddy asked.
“Negative - that looks to be sweat.” I admitted, realizing my self-image was eroding at the same pace as my deodorant.
With those forgettable memories in mind, I continued my unhealthy self-focus and discounted any merit in father-daughter dances. Until last year. A good friend with daughters the same age as mine, gave the experience rave reviews. I bit the bullet, and took my eight and ten year old girls. Unlimited Swedish meatballs, Shirley Temples, and brownie bites mixed with the Macarena and Chicken Dance was enough to redeem the most self-conscious awkward middle school dance memories. We all had a blast.
This year we prepared for the dance like seasoned pros. My girls picked out new dresses and we even invited some good friends to join us. Upon arrival my youngest nabbed six mini cucumber sandwiches and we downed a glass of Root Beer on our way to the dance floor. For the next two hours we danced unashamedly.
The hokey pokey produced movements and gyrations I didn’t know existed in my shoulder joint.
I felt 30% cooler than I should have as I dipped and spun my daughters as if they were my wife while Sweet Home Alabama twanged in the background.
I had a borderline epiphany that my absolute, when in doubt, “go-to” dance move was to pocket my hands, look down, breathe minimally through my nose, and slide back and forth with a level of soul most accurately described as suburban.
And best of all, I was not alone. My two daughters joined me in the revelry. They asked to be thrown in the air, they eye rolled my air-guitar solos, and continued to invite me to set aside appearances. In that wise invitation, it became clear who had wisdom. The dance felt like a gracious opportunity for me to follow my daughter’s lead into the needed place of whimsy and light-hearted dance.
As a father I’m hyper aware of the need to foster responsibility in my children. We do Saturday morning chores, they help me scoop horse manure, all with a desire to cultivate work ethic and ownership in them. But on that gaudy, flower saturated dance floor, I wondered how often I’ve fostered playfulness with them? How much have I valued and participated in a delightful, even silly lightheartedness with them?
The dance showed me the beauty of when roles are reversed. Where instead of teaching I can learn from my daughters the importance of not taking yourself seriously, how sweat is not only a valuable byproduct of hard work, but also hard dancing.
Where do you find yourself in need of following your children’s lead and learning from them?
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Jesse French, Executive Director