Last week, my church had a date night for daddies and their daughters. Having never gone before, and despite my lack of dance floor prowess, I was looking forward to getting my “groove” (really, I don’t groove, nor can I “bust a move”) on with my four-year-old. I suppose my friend, who had been to the event before, was looking forward to much the same thing.
Oh, how the night was to let us down.
As we are, our daughters are good friends, too. They love to play together, frolic, run, laugh, hold hands (which my friend and I don’t do). Apparently, as we discovered, they like to do one other thing, too: they like to dance. Together.
In my mind, the “Quad-D”–Daddy Daughter Dinner & Dance–was quite self-explanatory. In a four-year-old’s mind, well not so much. I mean, for me, this was an opportunity to treat her like the princess she is. In her’s, dad was cramping her style.
Picture the scene: we finish dinner, and head to the dance floor. We start to dance, and she starts to squirm. “Put me down,” she says. “Why?” I ask. “I wanna dance with my friend.” “But this is a daddy daughter dance.” “Put me down.” I didn’t
want to, but have you ever tried to hold onto a squirming four-year-old? With hundreds of people all around looking at you? I put her down. I saw that my friend did likewise.
Our daughters started to dance together. During the slow dance.
We stood there watching them, two dejected middle-aged men.
I turned, and said to him, “I’m not dancing with you, man.” We both busted up. And were contented to watch our little girls have a good time.
Someday, we really will have to give them away, and find ourselves sidelined by another man, but not yet. Not for a long time yet. But it’s coming. And I know we both want to prepare our girls for the road ahead by loving them, and their mommies, the way God wants us to. They deserve nothing less.
For now, let’s “bust a move.”