I was looking at a display case in my house and saw picture after picture taken
by professional photographers from past Daddy-Daughter Dances. I have two
beautiful daughters. The dance has been held every year around Valentine’s
Day. My oldest daughter is nearly five years older than her sister and a
middle child to boot. She would look forward to this for months. It
was her time to feel special and appreciated. I always seemed to have a
hard time getting off work in time and then hurrying home. Then I would
get my suit on and get ready to go. Meanwhile my date for the evening had
been ready for hours and had eaten. She knew I would never get off in time
to keep my promise about going out to dinner beforehand. After a couple of
poorly lit photos at the door, we would leave. The doorway to the dance
was always backed up with couples waiting for their photo to be taken. You
would think one time a photographer could have said, “Hey, the wind messed up
your hair!” But no, never a word was said and I looked goofy year after
year while my daughter looked angelic. Entering the ballroom (otherwise
known as the cafeteria on school days) there was a mirrored ball on the ceiling
and candy hearts in dishes on the red plastic covered folding tables. By
the time I had fetched us each a cup of punch, my disciplined daughter had
already picked a place at a table. We would sit for a few minutes as the
girls met in an ever growing crowd on the floor and talked about their dresses
and whatever else young girls talk about. My daughter would sigh and look
at me with her big brown eyes and smile. I would pat her on the hand and
tell her to join her friends. I didn’t need to say that twice. Soon
she was gone and I was alone. After a while I had the routine down.
I would talk to the other dad’s. There was the one who was a police
officer, the salesman, the part time drag racer, the railroad worker and a host
of others. We all swapped stories and tried to keep ourselves busy as the
girls mostly danced together. One dance it was nearly impossible to get
out of was the Chicken Dance. Whoever came up with it must have had a
strange sense of humor. I saw a video once of us doing it and I must say,
I am glad it never went viral! Soon my daughter would come back to leave
her shoes at the table and I would join her for slow dances. She loved it
when I would twirl her; even if it didn’t fit in with the dance. When the
dance ended, my date did not. I said we could go anywhere she wanted to
finish our date. She always chose the Starbucks inside the Barnes and
Noble bookstore. I am not a coffee drinker and she was a little young but
we discovered Starbuck makes the best hot chocolate in the world. Two $5
rice crispy treats later we were ready to look at books. She headed to
Young Adult and I went to Fantasy/Science Fiction. We always seemed to
leave with something new. Her last dance was my youngest daughter’s
first. My youngest daughter liked the hot chocolate but it wasn’t her idea
of fun. The next year it was just my youngest daughter and me. After
the dance she wanted to go to the frozen yogurt shop where I would tell her she
could have as much frozen yogurt and toppings as she could eat. She took
full advantage of that. Suddenly the rice crispy treats didn’t seem so
expensive. It didn’t matter, though. For that night my daughter was
a princess and in all good stories, the princess gets what she wants. Now
the dances are done. The girls are older, and I have a cabinet of photos
in which my ties are crooked every time. I miss those times. Now
they only live on the wall and in my memory.
by professional photographers from past Daddy-Daughter Dances. I have two
beautiful daughters. The dance has been held every year around Valentine’s
Day. My oldest daughter is nearly five years older than her sister and a
middle child to boot. She would look forward to this for months. It
was her time to feel special and appreciated. I always seemed to have a
hard time getting off work in time and then hurrying home. Then I would
get my suit on and get ready to go. Meanwhile my date for the evening had
been ready for hours and had eaten. She knew I would never get off in time
to keep my promise about going out to dinner beforehand. After a couple of
poorly lit photos at the door, we would leave. The doorway to the dance
was always backed up with couples waiting for their photo to be taken. You
would think one time a photographer could have said, “Hey, the wind messed up
your hair!” But no, never a word was said and I looked goofy year after
year while my daughter looked angelic. Entering the ballroom (otherwise
known as the cafeteria on school days) there was a mirrored ball on the ceiling
and candy hearts in dishes on the red plastic covered folding tables. By
the time I had fetched us each a cup of punch, my disciplined daughter had
already picked a place at a table. We would sit for a few minutes as the
girls met in an ever growing crowd on the floor and talked about their dresses
and whatever else young girls talk about. My daughter would sigh and look
at me with her big brown eyes and smile. I would pat her on the hand and
tell her to join her friends. I didn’t need to say that twice. Soon
she was gone and I was alone. After a while I had the routine down.
I would talk to the other dad’s. There was the one who was a police
officer, the salesman, the part time drag racer, the railroad worker and a host
of others. We all swapped stories and tried to keep ourselves busy as the
girls mostly danced together. One dance it was nearly impossible to get
out of was the Chicken Dance. Whoever came up with it must have had a
strange sense of humor. I saw a video once of us doing it and I must say,
I am glad it never went viral! Soon my daughter would come back to leave
her shoes at the table and I would join her for slow dances. She loved it
when I would twirl her; even if it didn’t fit in with the dance. When the
dance ended, my date did not. I said we could go anywhere she wanted to
finish our date. She always chose the Starbucks inside the Barnes and
Noble bookstore. I am not a coffee drinker and she was a little young but
we discovered Starbuck makes the best hot chocolate in the world. Two $5
rice crispy treats later we were ready to look at books. She headed to
Young Adult and I went to Fantasy/Science Fiction. We always seemed to
leave with something new. Her last dance was my youngest daughter’s
first. My youngest daughter liked the hot chocolate but it wasn’t her idea
of fun. The next year it was just my youngest daughter and me. After
the dance she wanted to go to the frozen yogurt shop where I would tell her she
could have as much frozen yogurt and toppings as she could eat. She took
full advantage of that. Suddenly the rice crispy treats didn’t seem so
expensive. It didn’t matter, though. For that night my daughter was
a princess and in all good stories, the princess gets what she wants. Now
the dances are done. The girls are older, and I have a cabinet of photos
in which my ties are crooked every time. I miss those times. Now
they only live on the wall and in my memory.
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