It was the first school dance I ever enjoyed. I was usually a wallflower but that night I was self-assured. I was old enough to drive — she wasn't. I sat in the driver's seat. She sat on a booster seat in the back. I was 40 and she was my six-year-old daughter — my date to the father/daughter dance.
The dance's theme was the '60s. Dads wore tie-dye shirts and adorned their balding scalps with headbands. One dad had drawn large sideburns on his cheeks. We'd find out at church, the next morning, whether he had mistakenly used permanent marker.
The first- to third-grade girls wore bell bottoms and outfits made out of material you'd only see on reruns of the TV show, The Dating Game. A brightly painted VW microbus, made out of cardboard, was parked in the corner. The only thing missing was a lava lamp. Better safe than sorry. You don't want to be the one to tell the fire chief that the sprinkler system went off because your lava lamp overheated.
We knew that in a few years our daughters would be embarrassed to be seen with us in public. But not tonight. Tonight, daughters were proud to be with their dads — dads who couldn't dance and looked as dapper as Austin Powers.
Watching 100 middle-age men try to dance is a pitiful sight. But, we persevered. We did the Chicken Dance and the Hokey Pokey. Our daughters were surprised we knew the Electric Slide, since they thought we grew up before electricity was invented.
The DJ played Daddy's Little Girl followed by Aretha Franklin's Respect. Combined, those two songs sum up life as a father of a young lady. One minute you're doting over your daughter and the next minute she's rolling her eyes at you because you won't let her dress like Brittany Spears.
I call the new, combined song Daddy's Little Girl Doesn't Have No Respect For Her Father. It goes like this:
You're the treasure I cherish, so sparkling and bright
(even though you whine when I ask you to pick up your clothes)
You were touched by the holy and beautiful light
(but you never remember to turn out a light when you leave a room)
Like angels that sing, a heavenly thing
And you're daddy's little girl
(who needs to learn a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T)
Catchy, isn't it?
It was at the dance that I hatched a plan to cut down on the number of places I have to drive my kids when they're older. I made a note to purchase a rainbow-colored afro wig, like one dad was wearing, and find a green leisure suit like the one worn by another dad.
Then, when my kids ask me for a ride, I'll simply put on my driving outfit and say, “I'll drive you anywhere you'd like.” I'll suggest that we pick up their friends and go hang out together at the mall. I'm sure there will be an immediate, voluntary cutback in the number of taxi rides from dad. Now, I just have to come up with an outfit for my wife.
Until then, I plan to savor every moment together with my daughter.
(Tim Bete is married with three children. He has nine combined years as a dad – 63 in dog years – which makes him an expert at answering the questions, “Are we there yet?” and “Why?” To subscribe to Tim's column or read more of his work, visit his website at www.timbete.com.)
