Posted on Thu, Oct. 15, 2009

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School dance a step into the unknown

There are two main reasons I signed up to chaperone the middle school dance: 1) It's been almost 30 years since I've gone to a middle school dance — we called it "junior high" back then — and I was curious.

2) On a mortification scale of zero to 10, Hannah told me my presence at her first dance would be "about a seven." So she may as well have proclaimed, Louisa May Alcott-style, "Oh, Mother, do please come! It will be ever so boring and dreadful if you aren't there!"

At the principal's direction, I staked out a spot in a corner by the door, where I could monitor shenanigans and also keep kids from unplugging the DJ's power cord. It was prime real estate.

Then I watched — entranced, incredulous, like stepping off a train in Istanbul. Or Jupiter.

I recognized plenty of the kids, of course, some from elementary school and some from the middle school courtyard where they gather each morning and afternoon.

There were tiny sixth-graders and eighth-graders the size of NBA All-Stars. Kids in jeans and sneakers, and ones in skirts and stiletto heels, bouncing like popcorn to Sir Mix-A-Lot.

I sneaked occasional glances at Hannah, who was easy to spot with her hair all in curls, styled especially for the dance. She looked beautiful and a little scared, not so different from her first day of preschool, when she pranced out of the car in her purple dress and Mary Janes but stopped just short of the preschool door and announced, "Not today."

That morning, like this evening, I smiled and waved. That morning, like now, she braved the unknown.

This time I got to watch from a corner, saw my daughter flank her friend Samantha like an escort pony on race day — Sammi, the giggly, excitable filly; Hannah, the calm, methodical guide. I watched them orbit the dance floor, shouting small talk over thumping music.

I kept to my corner, shrouded by darkness, assuming Hannah preferred me that way. Between dances, though, she strolled over. She asked if I wanted a bottle of water, and I said yes, that would be great.

I thought back again to a summer afternoon in the yard, when Hannah was maybe 5 or 6. She and some friends were playing tag, gleefully sprinting from tree to tree. I sat on the front step, reading a book.

"Mom is base!" Hannah shouted.

And suddenly she was on me, grabbing my shoulder, catching her breath.

That day, like this one, I fetched us both water. We sat and rested, and I brushed a stray, sweaty hair from her cheek. She stayed and chatted until friends called again, and the game continued.

That day, like now, I knew my place.

Reach Suzanne Perez Tobias at 316-268-6567 or stobias@wichitaeagle.com.

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