As a belated tribute to Father's Day, I am thrilled to share a Dadthra moment with you. (You may recall from a comment to an early post, that Dadthra is the lesser-known, but critical nonetheless, foil to Momzilla.)
This weekend, Momzilla and Dadthra had not one, but two glorious Little Miss Sunshine shows...I mean, dance recitals. With our kids in different dance classes this year, we were (un)lucky enough that we ended up with children in two different recitals. Each of the dance school's four (yes, four) three-hour recitals started with an elaborate opening number featuring the school's entire company. For those of you not yet in the know, the "company" is the group of girls who take several dance classes a week and audition to be in the competitive troupe. They are schooled in all major forms of dance, and have diet and lifestyle carefully regulated. At this dance school, the company includes young ladies of high school age, on down to age four. And each one of them was trotted out for this opening number.
Dadthra, still modestly scarred from the so-termed "ho-fest" of last year's single dance recital, was doing okay with the opening number...until the little kids came out. The youngest group in the company is a group of five four-year-olds, who were dressed in red halter bra tops and hot pants. They ran out on stage and literally gyrated in front of the older girls, to the wild cheers of the people sitting behind us, who must have been bussed in from a trailer park. Even with my hardened, cynical Momzilla-eye, I can tell you that there was nothing not disgusting about it.
Unfortunately, Dadthra hasn't built up the same callus that Momzilla has from spending hours at the dance studio every week. He was literally apoplectic, and tried to scoop up the other kids and leave during the opening number. Momzilla reminded him that we still had to see our own child perform her classical ballet several numbers later in the show.
(Luckily, at that point, our toddler started screaming, so we left Dadthra to fend for himself in the auditorium while we made a heroically quick exit to the lobby, where a full-out tantrum ensued, complete with kicking the heel off of a formerly lovely patent leather party shoe. We made it back in the auditorium about 30 minutes later, just in time for our own kid's very tasteful dance.)
I can assure you that Dadthra stuck around for the ballet number, and even remained long enough for Momzilla to retrieve the small ballerina from the dressing room to the audience, before he stage whispered his disgust with the whole recital and whisked the other kids off to the minivan and home.
In a show of grit and solidarity with the young dancer, Momzilla agreed to stay so the budding ballerina could watch more of the recital. In a stroke of divine luck, the little one grew bored after about 20 minutes, so Momzilla was free to retreat away from the world where anorexia is key and gyrating four-year-olds are celebrated.
By the time Momzilla returned home, Dadthra's blood pressure had fortunately retreated to a level not threatening imminent stroke. Momzilla reassured him that the next day's recital was filled more with the types of numbers in which toddlers are marched out on stage in cute, frilly costumes, and the object of the game is to get them on and off the stage without crying or having a potty accident. Dadthra seemed far more comfortable with that.
So the moral of the Dadthra story? 'Tis better to poop or cry onstage than to gyrate in anticipation of one's later "dancing" career (which admittedly, would likely earn far more than I ever will).