At the entrance, the girls each got colorful masks covered in sequins. (The ten-year-old flatly refused to wear hers.)
The fathers were not so lucky. Each of us was given a black mask covered in glitter. Glitter! As every right-thinking individual knows, glitter was spawned in the infernal realms. Glitter is pure evil. It is the bane of my existence. And yet . . .
I suffered the indignity of wearing the be-glittered mask. Long after I took the mask off, my face was still covered in black sparkles. GRRRR!!!!!!
My daughters can no longer complain that I never do anything for them.
The disc jockeys at this event, as is their custom, played the "music" at an eardrum-shattering level. Even my daughters complained about the noise. While the ten-year-old stood around with her fingers jammed in her ears, the seven-year-old begged me to take her home in order to escape the deafening roar.
I told her no. We needed to wait until the dance was over, I said, because the last song they played, always appropriately daddy-daughter-themed, would be the only one actually worth dancing to. Sure enough, the final song was Tim McGraw's "My Little Girl."
As I heard the first few notes, I hurriedly looked around for my daughters. The eight-year-old was at the far end of the school gym and completely engrossed in her friends' activities. So I grabbed the ten- and seven-year-olds, lifting one in each arm. And we danced.
Tim McGraw began singing, "Gotta hold on easy as I let you go/ Going to tell you how much I love you/ Though you think you already know . . ."
My heart soared. At last, the moment I had been waiting for! I joined in, singing at the top of my lungs as I swung my daughters around: "You've had me wrapped around your finger/ Since the day you were born."
Then my ten-year-old daughter shattered my reverie. "Dad, why do we always go to [L's] school activities but never to mine?"
I said, "We *do* go to your--"
S: "No we don't! We didn't go to the school carnival!"
Me: "That's because it cost money. This was fr--" I realized that the dance had cost money, too, so I stopped mid-sentence. I did not think my oldest daughter would understand that I would've sold one of my kidneys -- or any other internal organ -- if that's what it took to afford going to the daddy-daughter dance. But a for a school carnival? Pffffft. No way. I'd keep my organs, thanks.
I tried to get back to Tim, belting out, "Sometimes when you're asleep/ I whisper 'I love you' in the moonlight at your door--"
S: "How much did this cost? Huh? How much?"
Me: "Fifteen dollars."
S: "That would've bought sixty carnival tickets!"
Me (singing again): "Go on, take on this whole world but to me/ You know you'll always be my little girl."
S (shouting): "It's not fair dad! It's not fair! We never ever go to this kind of stuff at my school."
Me: "That's because your school never ever does this kind of stuff."
I rejoined Tim, "He has a poet's soul and the heart of a man's man/ I know he'll say that he's in love/ But between you and me, he won't be good enough!"
S: "Dad! Dad! I'll pay for my school activity! If it costs fifteen dollars, I'll pay for it. Whatever it is, I'll pay the cost. I've got the money."
Me (singing): "Beautiful baby from the outside in/ Chase your dreams but always know/ The road that will lead you home again--"
S: (Keeps shouting to be heard over the music.)
Me: "Go on, take on this whole world but to me/ You know you'll always be my little girl."
As the last notes of the song played and I gently set both girls back down on the ground, S. continued her diatribe unabated. The eight-year-old, preoccupied with a loose tooth, rejoined us and we headed for the exit.
On the way home, I drove in silence as the youngest kid complained about how bad her feet and ears hurt from the dancing and "music." The next oldest concentrated on wiggling her loose tooth until it finally fell out into her hand. And the oldest? She complained unceasingly about how unfairly her parents treat her.
Perhaps next year I'll save my money, my organs, and my hearing.
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