I’m gonna dance with my daughter

When I started my dancing career ... wait — that seems like an odd start to a column. Maybe I should explain.

I’m feeling a little sad this week. I know, I know, my job is to not be sad. My job is to bring a bit of levity to the news, to work in what some might describe as a state of blissful ignorance to bring you the stories that just don’t matter. When it comes to news you can’t use, I’ve become kind of a go-to source.

Now back to the dancing. When my youngest daughter, Emma, was first getting active and exploring recreational activities, we tried just about everything.

We tried soccer. It’s a really popular sport and I think the attraction is that beginner soccer is a lot like advanced “just running around a field and if a ball happens to roll by, try to kick it unless you are too busy picking dandelions.”

Our first year of soccer was pretty good because my daughter and her good buddy excelled at the dandelion-picking aspect of the sport. By year two, coaches cracked down and focused more on the kicking the ball thing. My daughter lost interest in this perceived ultracompetitive style of coaching and ended her soccer career.

We tried gymnastics. It was OK for a year but there was zero interest in returning. We tried skating. Skating was the worst. When little kids start skating for the first time, a few of them really love it. You can measure the enjoyment by the amount of unnoticed goop coming out of their noses.

Then there are the rest of the kids, like our Emma. It was about 13 years ago but it feels like yesterday. We took her to the cold arena. We tied her pretty white skates over a few layers of socks, snapped on the helmet, cinched up the mittens and sent her out the gate and onto the ice.

Emma quickly figured out where that gate was and when she tired of skating, or falling, she would set a course for the exit. The first few times we would see her coming and be ready to see what she needed. Skates loose? Nose needs wiping?

Nope. She just wanted to be done skating.

As we grew wiser, we would no longer sit anywhere near the gate. We’d shove Emma onto the ice and scurry up into the bleachers. She’d still beeline for the gate and we’d quietly curse and try to telepathically implore the parents standing near it: “Do not open it. Do not ... oh! Nooo! They opened it. Go see what she wants.”

We’d take turns going down to the gate and try shoving her back out to the ice while not swearing around the other parents. We were kind of the Shelley Duvall in “The Shining” to Emma’s Jack Nicholson, busting through the bathroom door. “Nooo. Stay out there,” we would plead.

We tried to be stern. We tried to bribe her with blue Powerade if she promised to stay out on the ice for the full lesson. When the season ended with a big wrapup ice show, we knew it would be our last.

Emma eventually found her groove though. She found it at dance class. It was instant and remarkable and a huge relief. We finally found an activity she loved. Her instructor also started up a thing called “Dad’s Dance” where fathers would dance with their daughters. They’d rehearse all year then dance at the end-of-year recital. When Emma was old enough, she wanted me to Dad’s Dance and she pleaded with me like I used to plead with her to get back on the ice.

I deflected for a few years before it struck me that the day was coming soon when she would stop asking. So, I danced. And we danced every Tuesday night all fall and winter and we performed at every end-of-year recital. There were three brave dads when I started and two of them have since retired as their little girls grew up. There are 14 dads this year and now it’s my turn to take a bow. Emma is off to university next year. My dancing days are over and that’s why I’m a little sad this week.

But I’m also feeling very lucky that all those years ago, my daughter asked me to dance and that I somehow smartened up and said yes.