Dance Like Nobody is Watching

I've taken some time off from the blog. I've been writing other things and living life. Here is something I submitted to a periodical I write for. Hope you enjoy.

This Week's Song - Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega's dance hit from 1999 gets the heart pounding, the feet moving, and for some of us, the tears flowing. Turn it up! 

Shelby

“Play it again, Daddy!” she implores. At four years of age, she is my little rosy-cheeked-head-strong first born. I push the button on the CD player that returns the electronic thump to its starting point. Shelby’s feet begin to shuffle across the hardwood floor while I do my best imitation of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. I take her hand and swing her wide. The giggles float skyward. We both dance like nobody’s watching. I’ve taught all of my kids there is no other way to dance. Find your beat and turn it loose. Then, suddenly, someone is watching. Her mother, Cheryl, summoned by the familiar words of a song we cannot remove from our heads, bounces down the stairs to join in, the three of us effortlessly falling into the throws of what has become our small tribal ritual. We are at the mercy and direction of a four-year-old child. “Do this, Daddy!” she implores as she waves her arms. We move around the coffee table in familiar rhythm, singing along with Lou Bega - A little bit of Monica in my life, A little bit of Erica by my side… There is laughter in abundance as our little creation laughs at, mimics, and directs her parent’s moves. It is the spring of 2000.

This memory plays in my head like a movie reel as I look out on the landscapes of the Lolo Pass in Idaho this week, the last miles of our journey passing beneath the Michelins. I usually bring it on myself, conjuring the scene from another life and planet. It generally makes me smile. For a father of a little girl, she is always four years old, dancing in a living room, the envied and unknowing possessor of pure innocence and joy. The emotion of the memory is amplified today, cutting and exact, hitting its mark as we make our way to her new school, her new town, her new life so far away. She is 20 years old.

Shelby, the author, and Sophie The Dog

The living room from the memory no longer exists, our first house having been leveled years after our move to make room for a church parking lot. The adoring mother, who was born to be her mother and who executed the complexities of the privilege with overwhelming love and skill, suddenly and shockingly departed life on a sad fall day before the melody of laughter and song faded into the doomed hardwood floors. Cheryl will always be 31, dancing to Lou Bega on Belleaire Drive. The music-laden memory is immortal as long as one, or in this case two people remain. And though I know Shelby has little if any memory of the moment or the mother she lost, here is Lou Bega’s hit emanating from the speakers of my little girl’s car from a CD she made. She’s heard the story. As I write this from the back seat, occasionally glancing at the beautiful Snake River to wipe hidden tears from beneath my sunglasses, I’m struck by the cruelty and beauty of parenthood and the power of music. Over the past four days, we have seen things we’ve never seen - the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, the majesty of Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, the wide open skies of Kansas and the glorious majesty of Montana. Nancy, the courageous and loving woman who married me and who has expertly and lovingly mothered Shelby since she was five, the woman who not only inherited but earned the vaunted title of “mommy,” rides along next to Shelby, gaping at the brilliance of our country. I am a blessed man, no doubt. Yet, while they are taking in the scenery, I’m in the back seat trying to figure out how I can somehow speed up this damn song or, in the very least, find, kill and dismember Lou Bega.

This child who provided a reason to dance, a reason to rejoice, and for a period of time, a reason to breathe, sings along with Lou just like she did when she was four while I shore myself against the storm of emotion brought on by the most upbeat song I’ve ever heard. The practical and seasoned lawyer in me has fled and is hiding somewhere in the mountains just beyond the horizon. I feel like the dad in the recent McDonald's commercial, the one crying in the shower about the son who has gone to college. Perhaps it is the journey of all parents. We go to soccer, basketball, and football games. We go to recitals and plays, followed by dinners with siblings and grandparents. We shop for Christmas presents and work harder to buy the perfect birthday gift while the clock ticks. We pay the orthodontist and give driving lessons while the sound of the ticking of the ever-present clock escapes us. We rarely heed the call or soak up the song. The next thing is always “about” to happen. How can we not see it coming? Those of you with adult children know of the moment you realize it. Those of you with young children should heed the call, pay just a little attention to the ticking of the clock and turn the music up. Way up. And, put on your dancing shoes.

On the road to Idaho

She completed two years at Tennessee as an honors student, but needed something else. She was led to serve as a counselor at a Christian camp in Washington last summer and now to a new chapter with a new set of friends on what feels like the other side of the world to a father who has done everything to keep her close. I’m once again reminded of my lack of control over life. I’ve ostensibly supported her quest since she told me her plan several months ago. During that time I've lived in constant fear of the airport goodbye, the blow of separation from this joyous and beautiful creature. Silly Daddy. While the selfish side of me is dying inside, the practical side of me is so proud and knows she is doing exactly as I directed - She is dancing like nobody is watching. She has found her beat and is turning it loose. She is happy. What more could a father ask for?