This weekend was the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance in our town. A lovely event that my oldest daughter and husband look forward to each year. It is the one special night that she has; the one big event that is just hers. The one that really doesn't involve me at all.
My participation surrounds her dress, her shoes, the jewelry and corsage. I help with hairstyles, and putting on just the right amount of lipstick; enough so that she feels glamorous, and looks eight at the same time! But once she is showered, blown dry, straight-ironed, polished, lip-sticked, blinged, zippered, tied and has done a practice twirl, I hand her over to her Dad. He bends down on one knee and puts on her shoes, Cinderella style. He gently puts on her corsage and gives her a kiss...they are so happy together. Quietly I watch as my involvement in the night ends.
The night becomes one for a little girl and her Dad. Despite my many texts, I hear very little throughout the course of the night. My husband, quite suspiciously, doesn't receive cell service inside the school gym where the dance is held. He gets fantastic cell service in Japan, but for some reason, on this night, in this gym, with his little girl all to himself...he doesn't get my texts...at least not all of them.
They dance; she still wants to dance with her Dad. He watches her twirl, and hold dear her friends. He experiences her pure happiness on that special night, a night they share. At home I anticipate their return, their stories and giggles, their secret looks. If I am lucky they show me a new move they discovered together under twinkling lights. As I listen to them recount their night together I am reminded;
she is just as much her Dads as she is mine.
And we both love her so very much.