The Dance

Jess and I went to our first daddy-daughter dance this weekend. "Dance" is a very loose term for the night, which should more appropriately be called, "Hold my soda and chicken nuggets while I run around the dance floor with my friends," but I think that's too many words to fit on an invitation.

I was happy to go because it was all Jessica could talk about the last couple of weeks, and both she and Stef love the concept of getting all dressed up for a night out. She wore a little black dress because 1) she thought she looked grown up and 2) she is little. Accompanying the little black dress were high heels, a necklace, a bracelet and a ring.

In between the inevitable running around and the DJ getting frustrated at his broken bubble machine, she tried to teach me to dance to Cotton Eyed Joe and I tried to teach her how to slow dance. By the time the Miley Cyrus and Cheetah Girls sing-alongs by five year-olds gave way to 30-and-40 something men singing along to "Livin' on a Prayer" both Jess and I knew it was time to go. In the end, we both had a great time. And I get to relive the experience again in 2 weeks with Stef.