February 7: Childhood, Ballet Recital, "Sleeping Beauty," New Cartoon

Now, Ives watched one year turning into another and had already begun to miss Robert's and Caroline's childhood, perhaps more than they did themselves...

If you haven't noticed, Ives is kind of a melancholy guy.  He loves his kids, and, as they become teenagers, he mourns for their childhoods.  He and his wife lived to make their Christmases joyful.  But, these moments are slipping away now, and Ives, the doting father, is having a difficult time letting go.

I am sitting in the auditorium of a theater right now, waiting in the dark for my daughter's ballet rehearsal to begin.  It's going to be a Sleeping Beauty kind of day.  And night.  My daughter has the part of the prince.  That means, as she told me in early fall, "I get my own curtain call, daddy!"  I remember her first day of ballet when she was five.  I thought she was going to be frightened and want me to stay with her.  Nope.  She walked into the dance studio like it was her second home.  She didn't even look back at me.  Now, nine years later, she has a solo and her own curtain call.  Like Ives, this doting father is having a hard time letting go of his little girl.

I am the only father at this rehearsal.  Generally, I'm always the only father at rehearsals.  The only time fathers usually show up is for actual performances, and then they sit in their seats, saying things like, "I wonder how long this thing is going to go?" and "Did you see that game last night?"  Once, before a dance recital, I had a father try to engage me in a conversation about the Green Bay Packers or the Detroit Tigers.  Some sports team.  I just sat there.  The only competitions to which I pay attention involve movies, television shows, plays, music, and books.

Like Ives, I dote.  My daughter is dancing on stage right now.  She's gorgeous and graceful, like blue mist on a morning lake.  Of course, I think she's the best of the ballerinas.  That's my job.  I'm her daddy.  I think she should get all of the solos, lead parts, and duets.  In fact, she should be the whole company.  Sleeping Beauty.  Prince.  Fairies.  Dragon.  Whatever.  It should all be my daughter.

That's why I'm not a dance instructor.  Well, that and the fact that my signature move is a little something I call the Marty.  I hold my hands together in front of me, circle them like I'm stirring a kettle, all the while thrusting my hips back and forth.  It ain't pretty.

Now my daughter is done dancing, so I don't have to pay attention any more.  Don't get me wrong.  The other girls are wonderful dancers.  They're just not my daughter.  I tend to be a hyper-critical person, if you can believe that.  I focus more on what's wrong than what's right.  (I do that with myself, as well.  I've had poems published with lines that stab me between the eyes now when I read them.)  I wish I could lose myself in the moment.  Simply enjoy the music and grace.  It's not in my make-up.  Except when it comes to my daughter.

It doesn't help the situation that I've directed plays and musicals.  I watch everything with a director's eye.  Good staging.  Bad staging.  Good lighting.  Bad lighting.  Dancers that move before the fade to black is complete.  Costume malfunctions (not the Janet Jackson kind).  All that kind of technical stuff.  Of course, my daughter never makes any mistakes, never has any problems.

Perhaps Saint Marty should just close his eyes whenever his daughter isn't on stage.  Imagine his five-year-old ballerina, running and spinning in a dance studio.

Confessions of Saint Marty