Valentines Dance -- Last Dance

OK, one final nail in the “I can’t believe my baby is growing up so fast” coffin and then I’ll let it go.

When the school announced plans for it’s first annual Valentines Dance for 4th and 5th graders, I had no idea the drama that would ensue over who was going with who. Phone calls were made, feelings were hurt, tears were shed. 4th grade, people. 4th grade.

All I can say is thank goodness Brayden was asked by a lovely young man named Michael. Michael’s mother and I are friends, so that made it even nicer. And although Brayden would most likely be mortified that I told you this, she sent love notes to Michael in kindergarten, which makes this 4th grade date to the Valentines Dance even sweeter.


Getting her makeup done



Getting her hair done



Waiting (not-so) patiently while her mother makes her pose for just one more photo



What I wouldn’t give for skin this clear, unwrinkled, unlined, unwrinkled, unblemished, and most importantly, unwrinkled. Did I mention unwrinkled?



Michael arriving as the perfect date, complete with a corsage. Brayden, as evidenced by the look on her face, has no idea what this wrist corsage is about, despite my telling her what would happen beforehand.



Neither me nor Michael’s mom could get his boutonnière pinned to his chest, so my friend Jeanette, who had done Brayden’s hair and makeup, had to do it. Then, being the obnoxious scrapbookers that we are, we made Brayden pretend she was pinning it on so we could take a picture.



I’m pretty sure right about now both Michael and Brayden were wishing they had just stayed home and played video games.



But look how nice they clean up!




And here we go, with the actual dancing. Since I was the “official” photographer for the dance, I was able to covertly take a few pictures while the kids were getting their groove on. Except the only song they would dance was the Cha-Cha Slide. So they just played that one song, about twelve million times. The rest of the night the kids just ran around, chasing each other with balloons, and posing for twelve hundred formal portraits. But I was still glad to get a few photos of Brayden dancing. Look how happy these kids are, and how much fun they’re having. As long as it never, ever, ever, EVER involves dollar bills or a pole, she can keep it up as long as she wants.

And that, actually, is the reason this whole night was bittersweet to me. Not because my little girl is growing up so fast, and would be turning ten in just a few days, and was going to her first dance, but because she was actually going to her LAST dance, although she doesn’t even know it yet.

Blaine only has one year left before he is eligible for retirement from the Air Force, and at some point we will be moving back to Oklahoma. We are going to send our children to the local school where my sister and I graduated; where my mom and dad graduated; where my grandpa graduated; where my aunts and uncles and cousins graduated, where my nephews currently attend …. You get the picture. Everyone knows everyone in this little town, and has, for years. Depending on your mood, it’s either very Norman-Rockwell, or very creepy.

My home town is all about the church. It’s a long history, and I won’t bore you with the details today, but the local elementary, middle and high school, all were built together on land donated by the private, religious university next door. It’s a public school, not a private one, but since it is so closely tied to the church, there are a few guidelines the school has always followed in an attempt to adhere to the Nazarene way of thinking. Nothing extreme --- the students aren’t required to wear gunny sacks or pray for eight hours a day or plow their fields by lantern or carry around the carcass of a dead chicken or anything. There’s probably a whole post about my psuedo-Nazarene upbringing, but I won’t go into it here.

But, we don’t have dances. Ever. At all. Not even a prom. Because dancing with members of the opposite sex is the Devil’s work -- inviting temptation and not at all appropriate. Moving your body to music, especially near a boy, is sinful, lustful, and leads to nasty things. At least that is what I was told all my life, which is probably why the minute I turned twenty-one I headed for the nearest dance club and pretty much moved in for six months or so, until I had danced to every song ever recorded. Because nothing, NOTHING, makes a kid want to do something more than telling them they shouldn’t. I don’t think the authority figures at my old school are EVER going to figure that one out.

It’s this big stupid drama every year, or at least it was when my sister and I were students. Back in my mom and dad’s day, I don’t think they cared. And back in my grandpa’s day, well, I have no idea. But every year while **I** was in school, the students would always, ALWAYS, make a formal request to the school board for permission to hold a dance, and it was always, ALWAYS, denied. And yes, Footloose came out my senior year of high school, and if you think we didn’t identify with that movie and talk about how it was OUR OWN STORY, OH MY GOSH, THAT MOVIE IS ABOUT US and walk around channeling the identities of Kevin Bacon and whoever that girl was, well, you just know that we did.

Every year, discussions would go back and forth about how this is a public school, and all public schools have proms, and we’ve got pregnant chicks walking the halls already, so isn’t it a bit hypocritical to be told *dancing* is immoral??? And as students, we would be outraged that our constitutional right to wear hoop dresses and big permed hair (hey, this was the 80’s after all) and rent a limo for the night was being denied to us. And the school board would pretend to consider it, and come back every single time and say no. So, every single year, the senior class would find a student whose parents were members of the local country club, and we students would plan our own dance. To be held after the Jr. Sr. BANQUET, which was the big event the school planned for us. Because nothing says “hey, let’s spend two hundred dollars on a dress and get our hair and nails done and rent tuxedos and buy matching corsages!” quite like sitting down at a round table for ten and dining on chicken kiev and watching a magician for the evening’s entertainment. Whoo! That’s some big fun, there, for a bunch of 17 and 18 year olds!

I’m pretty sure times haven’t changed, and they still don’t have dances at my old school. Still, with the old-school Nazarene way of thinking. Still, with me rolling my eyes.

The positive aspects of this school so completely outweigh the negatives that we will be sending our children there without any hesitation. But it makes me a little sad to know that unless times and policies have updated, my kids will never get to experience a typical prom experience. Instead, they’ll eat chicken kiev in the banquet room of the local Sheraton, and clap politely when the magician is over (and possibly show up drunk and catch the centerpiece on fire, which is what one of my friends did one year) and then when the Jr. Sr. Banquet is over, they’ll shuttle on over to the country club and hold their own dance, which is exactly what we did. They’ll hire a DJ, and a caterer, and pay for it with their own money, and dance all night. Moving, shaking, and sweating with members of the opposite sex, all to the beat of music.

I’m pretty sure Jesus still loves us, and not one kid wound up pregnant that night.

Seriously. {rolly eyes} The school board REALLY needs to get with the program.

Because damn it, my daughter deserves the right to buy the perfect taffetta dress and rent a limo with her friends and do the Cha-Cha Slide again in eight years.

After all, I have photos that need taking.