Dance recital crash offers life lesson



My daughter is a dancer. So that pretty much makes me one of those “dance parents” whether I want to be or not. It’s okay though. I never got to be a hockey dad. I don’t have boys and neither of my girls was ever interested in playing hockey. Even when I asked if they wanted to come out in the driveway and practice their slap shots — on Dad — they said, emphatically, “Nah.”

My girls would far rather watch reruns of Zack and Cody or Waverly Place or one of those Family Channel shows than listen to Dad reminisce about the glory days when the Leafs were actually making the playoffs, led by heroes like Aki Berg, Jonas Hoglund and Karel Pilar — household names all in that magical spring of 2002.

But at least I don’t have to stand around cold rinks. I don’t have to travel around the countryside every weekend and I don’t have to spend a fortune on protective gear.

I’m a dance dad. So I get to stand around sweaty dance studios wishing I could buy a T-shirt that says “I’m here for my daughter — I am not just some weirdo.” And I get to spend a fortune on costumes that look just like those shower poofs but cost about 300 times more.

My little girl has been dancing for about six years now and she’s gone from standing there with her hands on her hips, nervously shuffling her feet to some sort of pre-teen girl version of Gregory Hines. She’s really good and she really loves it. It’s fun and it’s not competitive like hockey. Most of the time.