Daddy-Daughter Dance

     It's that time of year again.  Time for elementary and middle schools to scare the living daylights out of fathers.  I guess it's formally called "Daddy-Daughter Dance", but "You're scaring me to death and my life is flashing before my eyes" would be a more accurate title.  After all, daughters do very little dancing with their daddys at these shindigs.
     This was my second Daddy-Daughter dance.  Much like dog years, dads age about seven years with each dance for a variety of reasons, but mainly because their little girls are growing up each year.
     But it is at least one night when dads are in the spotlight and daughters have no choice but to embrace them because Super Mommy is at home.  You want something, sweetheart? You have to ask Dad.  Of course, daughters are fully aware they're going to get whatever they want on this night. The last thing an unprepared dad wants to deal with is his daughter crying in the middle of a gymnasium even if the music and disco lights hide the theatrics.
     Of course, my DDD (Daddy-Daughter Drama) began before we left.  My six-year-old had a beautiful pink dress.  Despite her initial disappointment that I wouldn't be wearing a tuxedo she was overly excited for this special night.  And when Super Mommy agreed to let her wear a little makeup...well, what could possibly ruin this night?
     Lipstick.  Lipstick could ruin this night.  "Mom, I want bright red lipstick." "Ummm, no m'am.  That's not going to happen.  You can put on a little lip gloss."  Cue the Hoover Dam.  Finally, after tears were shed and egos fed, Ms. Six going on 17 agreed to wear lip gloss.  I was pretty proud of my point to her.  "Sweetheart, lip gloss is lipstick.  Like you have a nickname, lip is just short for lipstick.  So, you're wearing lipstick gloss." Crisis averted.

     After facing the paparazzi of family members on the way out the door it was on to the school gymnasium turned Studio 54.  The school really does a terrific job with this.  And since we had survived one DDD my daughter wouldn't fall for my story that I had bribed the principal to let me choose the music.
     We arrived fashionably late (did I mention prior meltdown) and I knew what my first vision of the gym would be.  Yes, a group of dads surrounding the sidelines and baselines of the basketball court that made up the dance floor.  It's not quite guards in front of Birmingham Palace, but not far from it.  Dads are encouraged to dance, but most take the floor in the most tentative of ways and tend to sway two or three inches to each side while keeping a laser-like focus on their daughter.

     You could also compare this to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona.  The dads are the walls that line the streets and the daughters are the bulls...running wildly around the floor.  There are also dads who pack the bleachers of the gym.  Some to get a better vantage point to keep an eye on their daughter, but most in hopes of not having to descend on the dance floor and be exposed.  Those who think they can't dance or actually can not dance know their fate.  They will inevitably be positioned next to the one dad who can bust a move with the best of them and isn't shy about proving it.
     I don't fancy myself to be a dancer, but I can get by.  I had no problems sharing this night with my daughter on the dance floor.  And besides, I knew I could embarrass her on purpose if she didn't listen to me.

     The more experienced dads know they don't have to worry too much.  Once the daughters weather the initial flash of what's happening upon entry they have only one mission...find their friends.  After taking the floor for about, oh, thirty seconds of dancing, the next five to seven minutes are spent cruising the gym for friends at about the same pace Cinderella had trying to beat the clock to midnight.  And what a glorious moment when your daughter finds a friend or even better a group of them.
     Eventually, a slow song will come on with the DJ requesting daddys and daughters to dance together so dads know they'll get their moment, but during the "Friends" episode of the night dads can catch their breath and talk about dad things without guilt because for that period of time we don't exist in our daughters worlds.  They will dance and laugh among themselves without a care in the world.  And of that I'm extremely jealous.  I spent my free time as a water boy holding three to four small bottles of their water while they danced hard regardless of the tempo of the song.  I was pretty impressed with my ability to hold three bottles of water, a bag of popcorn and cookies in napkins while keeping up with who had what when the song was over.
     Then came the inevitable bathroom break.  Since it was the school gym she just took off with "bathroom" trailing off.  I stood guard near the door.  And waited.  And waited.  And...you get the picture.  When she appeared some 15 minutes later I made the mistake of asking her what took so long.  "Uh, Dad, the line was long."  I did not see a line out the door so I asked, " Did you happen to spend some time gabbing with your friends in there?"  A smile slowly creeped across her face and she knew she was busted.  I didn't know the whole "women going to the bathroom together" started at six years old or younger.  She was also smart enough to know she could escape with a well-timed "Let's dance!"

    When the dance was over (an hour that felt like three hours, but also just ten minutes at the same time) I felt deprived.  I had seen into the future, but also felt like I had lost something valuable in the past.  I asked, "Would you like to stay out and have Daddy-Daughter dessert?"  A resounding "YES!" rang from the back seat. "Dad, can we go somewhere fancy?"  I answered, "Absolutely, we'll find a place worthy of your Princess presence."
     We settled on a steakhouse not too far away and were treated like royalty by the staff despite informing them we were just there for dessert.  We looked at photos, traded jokes and drizzled chocolate sauce on our vanilla ice cream to stir it into chocolate soup although careful enough not to splatter.  I mean, a Princess has a certain image to live up to.
     As we were walking to our car she said, "Dad, I know I can't marry you, but I wish I could."  I laughed out loud, but now know it was probably to keep from crying.  Fortunately she bailed out my emotions with her next line. "But I'm not going to marry a stinky boy.  If a stinky boy proposes to me I'm going to say NO!"
     So through the meltdown, the forgetting I'm there and the bathroom vacation I realized she's pretty smart and has a very good idea of what she wants.  And for one night she wanted me by her side.  I can't wait for next year's dance.

Snow Daze

     It’s what every kid looks forward to.  And from what I can tell every teacher.  A snow day.  Better yet, snow days.  Down in the South they’re more of a myth.  Rarely do we get snow and that’s why everyone seems to overreact.  And I mean everyone.  Even the transplants from the north who overreact to our overreaction.  We get it.  You used to live where snow is measured by feet, not inches. But you’re one of us now and even a couple of inches can shut an entire city down.  Don’t even mention ice. 
     On Friday, the kids (and teachers) got their wish.  NO SCHOOL.  A forecast of 2-4 inches led school systems to call it a day late Thursday afternoon.  The forecast had been in the works for a few days.  I honestly don’t know why they just didn’t call Thursday a snow day as well.  The minute, sorry, the second that kids picked up the scent of a possible snow day by stumbling past a television during the weather portion of a newscast they had cashed their chips in.  Tweets, texts, posts flew furiously from their fingertips. Spread the word. Bigfoot had been spotted.  I mean what were they going to learn on Thursday with thoughts of snow flakes clogging their brains? Kids don’t understand Mother Nature.  She is fickle and will change her mind in an instant.  So the concept of "let’s wait and see” means nothing to them.  A chance of snow means SNOW!
     Never mind that they were coming off a two-week holiday break.  And it was already a short week.  No, a snow day is that rare treat than stands on its own.  So every hour of every day leading up to Friday included “We’re not going to school Friday, right? It’s going to snow, right?”
     It’s easier to get kids to sleep on Christmas Eve than on a snow day eve.  I can only imagine teachers have a harder time containing their anxiousness. It reminds me of Carly Simon’s hit, “Anticipation”.
     So at 6:00am my son is up and making noises.  He has to share the incredible glee that is about to burst out of him.  Not only did he have the advantage of an early snow day closing, guaranteeing no school, IT HAD ACTUALLY SNOWED!  Not the 2-4 inches previously predicted, but enough to cover the ground.  And that meant one thing.  He would get to hit his sister with a snow ball. Consequences be damned.  He can live with an hour in his room or a day without tv or electronics or even a potted meat sandwich for dinner.  The chance to uncork a fastball at an unsuspecting rival was just too good to pass up.

     I will admit I was enjoying the thought of not waking up at the usual early hour to make school lunches and drive them to school in below freezing temps.  But when a kid’s snow day body clock goes off it carries an avalanche effect.  I opened my eyes to two creatures standing over me so bundled up they could barely move.  The night before their snow clothes had been laid out.  This did not go over well.  Too many layers for the boy, not enough fashion for the girl.  But if you want to play, you have to make sacrifices.
     Fortunately for me the kids are old enough to dress themselves.  Friends with younger children describe a living hell trying to get them dressed to go outside and play.  By the time you finish they need to use the bathroom so it’s peeling the layers back off only to start all over again.  It usually leads to late morning drinking, but hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
     So it’s now 7:00am and I know there’s no chance of staying in bed for even a few more precious minutes.  I’m dealing with my own snow daze as I stumble around in the darkness of the bedroom, putting on who knows what that doesn’t match.  Their goal is to get me outside as soon as possible.  It’s freezing, of course, and I know my top priority is taking photos.  One, for the memory.  Two, for proof that I actually went outside with them after receiving an order from my wife several hours earlier, “You have to go outside and play with them.”  It was not a suggestion.
     Snap, snap, snap.  Done.  Now to head off my son’s sinister plan to unleash terror on his sister.  “Do not aim at the face!”  I could read his mind.  “Aim at her legs.”  We proceed to joke and laugh, make snowballs and big plans.  In my back pocket I know I have two weapons to save me if this drags on too long. “Hey, kids, who wants hot chocolate?” and “Hey, kids, let’s get warm for when Grandad comes over to get you later.”

     But they are blinded.  Not by the snow, but the fun in the snow.  Hearing my daughter laugh that genuine laugh when she falls down in the snow and seeing my son celebrate hitting a target (not his sister) made everything worth while.
     I even decided to get in on the fun.  With my daughter distracted I rolled up a snowball and took careful aim to hit her in the back, lightly.  And it didn’t matter.  She let out a wild scream.  The tennis ball sized snowball had found her shoulder blade, through four layers of clothing.  There’s no way that could’ve hurt, but she was caught off guard and Dad was going to pay.  So through all of my warnings and preparation my son got the last laugh without even throwing a snowball at her.  He got the pleasure of seeing her squeal without getting in trouble.
     The fun resumed for a while longer.  Snow days are special, but I prefer them in singular form.  Sorry teachers, but you’ve had your fun.  Back to school on Monday.  After all, it’s the South.  It could be another year before we get snow.

Pacman Jones could channel Adele to apologize to Antonio Brown

Cincinnati Bengals cornerback Pacman Jones lived up to his word and apologized to Pittsburgh Steelers wide receiver Antonio Brown for saying Brown was faking a concussion.  Brown will miss the Steelers next playoff game because of concussion symptoms.  Pacman's dilemma was perfect for an Adele adaptation.

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these days you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I guess that doesn’t include concussions

Hello, did you hear me scoff?
I’m in Cincinnati, dreaming about the playoffs
When we had the ball and the lead
I’ve forgotten how it felt before Burfict knocked you off your feet

There’s such a difference between us
Your team playing and mine sitting at home

Hello from the defense side
I must’ve misspoke a thousand times
I want to tell you I’m sorry
For everything that I said
But when I went on those networks
I kept saying things I now dread

Hello from the defense side
At least now I can say I tried
To tell you I’m sorry
For us breaking your head
But it don’t matter, that I lied about what you said, anymore

Hello, how are you?
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself, I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of concussion protocol
When I said nothing ever happened?

It’s no secret
It was stupid of me to cuss
I’m running out of my mind

So hello from the defense side
I must’ve misspoke a thousand times
I want to tell you I’m sorry
For everything that I’ve said
But when I went on those networks
I kept saying things I now dread

Hello from the defense side
At least now I can say I tried
To tell you I’m sorry
For us breaking your head
But it don’t matter, that I lied about what you said, anymore

Turning the tables

       It hit me a couple of years ago, while having drinks with friends one night, that I may lose my part of the battle in raising (I know you rear children, but who actually says that? And I'm a stickler for grammar) our little girl. She was three at the time. My friends, who are women, squealed with delight over the thought of this little girl taking down her mean, old Dad. I will add these two women do not have children. They were using their childhood as evidence that sweet, innocent girls always conquer their fathers and only an agonizing life of pure frustration awaits me for decades to come. I'm not sure if their glee was more about predicting that my daughter would follow in the footsteps of her millions of predecessors or their expectations of me swirling in pure heck for eternity as the result.
      Now, I will say, I stood firm that night over drinks. Likely because I was sitting down. I boldly declared that my daughter would not own me, despite the pink and purple of her room, the tens of princess dresses, the overflow of Disney merchandise. My mother, God bless her soul, raised (reared) two boys by herself on a small nurse's salary through the 60's, 70's and 80's. She was never battle-tested by a daughter, but I doubt she would've caved. Plus, she was a mother. Apparently, only fathers have to face this specific type of dilemma.
     My friends went on and on about the trials, tribulations and trauma I would face as the years passed. Their smiles grew bigger and laughter got louder with each prediction. Those decibels were surpassed when I proudly proclaimed I would win more than my fair share of battles with the "tike going on teen."
      Three years have passed since then. My daughter likes to tuck her hands under her chin, tilt her head and give me a sad, puppy dog face when she wants something. I pull out my company line, "That won't work on me." To her credit she continues to make that her 'go to' move. Never surrender!
      I am also proud to say, I stand tall and firm with my demands when it's Dad's turn to make and serve dinner. My daughter and her older brother (by four years) do not like it when it's my turn. Let's say they're getting an elegant meal of chicken nuggets, broccoli and rice. My daughter starts out with one nugget, a complete serving of broccoli and rice.
LT. PRINCESS-"Why do I have only one nugget?"
GENERAL DAD-"BECAUSE YOU'LL TEAR THROUGH ALL OF THE NUGGETS FIRST AND NOT EAT YOUR BROCCOLI OR RICE."
LT. PRINCESS-"But Dad, (channeling her inner Kerrigan) whhhhyyyyyyy?"
GENERAL DAD-"Finish your broccoli and then you'll earn more nuggets."
LT. PRINCESS-"Can I have some ranch dressing with it?"
GENERAL DAD-"Sure, but my pour."
     As you might imagine, she sweeps up the entire pour (small, mind you) of ranch dressing with her first piece of broccoli. The frenzied request for more ranch dressing falls on deaf ears as I wonder what my wife and I will have for dinner at yet another late hour of the night. With the volume of a bullhorn I repeat my victorious line, "FINISH YOUR BROCCOLI AND YOU'LL GET MORE NUGGETS." I stand proud on the battlefield of Fort Kitchen!
      Suddenly, as I think I have breezed to victory, an alarming shriek goes out, carrying past the refrigerator, the oven, the sink, the dishwasher, growing as it nears my ears, "DAD, THE RANCH DRESSING TOUCHED MY RICE!"
      My initial reaction, a suppressed laugh, avoids detection. A more suitable, but challenging "REALLY?" is released from my widening lips. Poor rice grains. Ten of them never stood a chance as the thick, white lava rushed toward them, steered by a giant green monster with tiny trees growing out of its head.
GENERAL DAD-"It's all going to the same place anyway, your stomach."
LT. PRINCESS-(Head hanging) "But it touched the rice."
GENERAL DAD-"I will separate the fallen grains from their comrades. If you don't want them touching then be more careful the next time you swipe your broccoli."
LT. PRINCESS-(Apparently thinking she had distracted me) "Can I have more nuggets?"
GENERAL DAD-"WHEN...YOU...FINISH...YOUR...BROCCOLI!"
      She finally caved. Each floret wearing just a trace of ranch before disappearing. I assume the ranch-laced broccoli and rice had a good laugh in her stomach later as they danced together.
      Dad won that round. I'm smart enough to know the battles will grow in volume and strength. She will grow smarter, more savvy. And more challenging...just grow up period. But I will always have the advantage of being able to tell her, "I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know."
     Let the games begin.