I have one rather selfish theory, which defies genetics, that the good Lord gave me a daughter because he got tired of my not understanding women. Sure, most men don’t understand women, but I’m even further back in the line. Watching one grow from the ground up, he finally concluded, was the only way I was going to ever understand this strange species and their confusing interests in things like romantic comedies and matching socks.

For the first 2 ½ years of Amelia’s life, we sort of eased into girl world. There were more dolls around the house than trucks, sure, but Amelia was pretty willing to play with both. Her girl dramas in the toddler room at school still involved slugging more so than gossip or long-term ignoring.

There were some clear differences. At school, for example, Amelia and the other girls seemed more interested in talking than the boys, who in turn seemed more interested in dinosaurs and climbing up the sides of things. Also, Amelia already tellsVictoria“I like your necklace, mommy.” My own mother, who affectionately called her household of three boys “the YMCA” would have killed for such a compliment.

We upped our journey into girl world this January after one of the other mommies at Amelia’s school talked us into signing up for dance lessons.

Dance lessons for toddlers are reasonably priced, as a way of getting you brought into the system, I assume. You only have to buy one outfit instead of the 17 they make the older girls and boys purchase. I should also note here that several friends of mine have boys involved in dancing, but it’s fair to say that it’s still girl-dominated.

Amelia and I arrived at the studio a couple minutes beforeVictoria, so it was up to me to enter girl world unassisted. I cautiously walked forward into a world of pink tutus and ballet slippers. Amelia, who was wearing jeans and sneakers, quickly pointed out to me that she wanted to be wearing an outfit like those worn by the other young ladies. Lesson learned, Lord.

Graceful young ladies practiced in unison in the rooms downstairs while their little brothers darted around the hall in karate uniforms. There were older sisters in dance uniforms waiting during the karate lessons I took as a child, so this felt like some sort of karmic balance. We were marched upstairs, where a small group of tutu-clad toddlers were gathered.

I wasn’t the only dad in the building, but the other guy looked like he was a lot more used to this sort of thing than I was. Dude brought two different ballet shoe options!

After a couple minutes the dance instructor, who was the owner of the facility and probably the only member of the staff willing to tackle the toddlers, came up stairs and told us it was time for class to start. She opened the door to the dance room. Then she dropped a bomb.

“Parents are going to have to wait outside!” she smiled, adding. “And if your child isn’t toilet trained, please remain close.”

The next few minutes were one of those separation scenes you see in World War II movies. The kids all fought and cried and generally resisted the idea of being pulled away from mommy, who was thinking exactly the same thing.

Amelia sort of shrugged, squared her shoulders and strode forward through the doorway into the great unknown. Most of the other children were sort of wrestled into the room by their parents, who then came back out into the hall.

The door closed. The parents, including Victoria and myself, all stood there forlornly and stared at it.

Faint music began to play inside the room, punctuated by the occasional screams or cries of protest.

We all stared at the door some more.

The door opened about five minutes later and the instructor came out, ushering in five of the eight sets of parents to deal with the protesting toddlers inside. At that point, I wasn’t sure if I should be proud that my daughter was one of the three kids able to carry on without mommy or daddy, hurt out of a fear that maybe she didn’t like us as much as some of the other kids like their parents, or just pragmatically upset that she wasn’t acting up so we could go watch. It was, I suppose, an important lesson for her about squeaky wheels.

The cries (mostly) subsided and the music resumed. The door opened 25 minutes later for the second time and a stream of toddlers and parents poured out.

We were still a little bummed about not getting to watch the dance lesson, but we also kind of understood. Parents can be a big pain in the rear. As the former sports editor of two small-town newspapers, I’ve been on the other end of the parental firing squad and try my best to be sympathetic.

We pulled our little dancing queen (young and sweet, only 2 ½) aside and asked her to show us what she’d learned.

Amelia, who was only taking her first steps a little more than a year ago, somewhat studiously put her hands together over her head and turned around in a circle.

And that, dear reader, is when my heart melted.

It wasn’t the first time.

Author: KyleMarksteiner
Kyle Marksteiner is employed by Ad Venture Marketing as editorial director for Focus on Carlsbad and FLETC Advocate magazines. He has a bachelor’s degree in sociology and communications from Trinity University in San Antonio. Kyle spends most of his free time following his 2-year-old daughter Amelia around and putting things back onto shelves that she’s pulled off.