6-14-07 From Teri: This past Wednesday I took Eliza to ballet class, as I do every week. She and I share a love of the quiet, orderly beauty of classical ballet. For me, ballet is somewhat of an escape: a gentle, consistent world where hard work & balance & stretching & effort is transformed into something graceful and beautiful. In ballet class there is no teething toddler to throw everything off kilter. There is no pre-teen angst about whether the begged-for red hair-color is too red, to put me in a sweat; the only sweat I generate is from my own stretching, working, extending muscles. Ballet class is...tidy. Organized. In control.

After ballet class, Eliza and I had to run some errands - y'know, the bank, the pharmacy, the grocery store. What I hoped would take an hour took more like three, and we didn't get home till long past dinner, long past little-boys' bedtimes. About halfway into the grocery shopping trip I checked in with Kevin: "hey honey, how are things?" I could hear Ian screeching something in the background along the lines of, "dats MY tractor tippin'!!!" This was followed by some loud banging, the words, "mine, mine, mine," and wails exploding from little Canyon. Over the din, Kevin's cheery voice assured me that all was well; they were having fun. "Take as long as you like," he said, "I'll do dinner for everyone here in a bit...you don't need to feel rushed...we'll be fine."

I hung up with a bit of trepidation. Hmmm...maybe I should cut things short. Nah. They'd be fine. Maybe not the way I would do it, but they would be fine. Okay, honestly, better than fine. Sometimes "not-the-way-I-would-do-it" is so much better.

Sure, I started motherhood the way most of us do; a little freaked out, but quickly assuming I was the perfect authority on all things related to diaper changes, feeding, bath time and more. Well, anything related to my sweety little pookums. When Kevin stepped up to the changing table with baby wipes in hand, I rolled my eyes and then patiently explained how to do things properly. (what? my self-righteous indignation didn't come off as patient???) When Kevin took over for a mashed-banana feeding, I carefully demonstrated how to gently place the baby spoon just inside baby's lips, then later sighed with resignation and cleaned up the sticky-brown banana smears off the infant seat, & the baby's head, & the floor, & the bizarre splatter across the kitchen wall. But after the second & third banana-food-fight-feedings, I had a sinking feeling that Kevin wasn't messing things up so much as he was discovering a new belly-laugh from our chortling baby. I stopped cleaning long enough to realize that there was something beautiful happening between them...something that had nothing to do with a tidy feeding.

Soon enough baby number two came along...and then baby number three...and by the time we had baby number four & five, I didn't care if Kevin changed the diapers "my way" or not, as long as the butt got changed! I still have to fight the tendency to tell him how to put the little ones to bed; "now, Ian likes to drink water from the cup after I brush his teeth...oh, and let him do a little brushing too,...and make sure to put the little hand-towel under his chin...see, he likes it like this..." But when I shut my mouth and step back to watch Ian with Daddy, I realize that they have a bedtime routine all their own. It is filled with laughter, and splashing, with tickling and yelling and tackling and giggling. No, its not so...tidy. But I'm learning not to mind the clean up so much. What's a little water slopped on the floor compared to all those smiles? Who cares if I have to search for the dirty little socks after they have been sent flying from the ceiling fan blades...and caused squeal after squeal of laughter?

Over the years I've learned that Daddy has a way of doing things, so different from my organized, efficient routine, that is beautiful in a whole new way. Nights when Mommy's-not-home become evenings of fun & discovery & adventure. Honestly, the kids didn't experience their first ventures in cooking under my wing. They jumped feet-first into it when Daddy was running the show - "hey kids, who feels like having some home-made chocolate-chip cookies? here's the cookbook...go for it!" Sure, there's a little more morning-after mess to clean up. Okay, maybe a lot more mess to clean up. But the stories I hear the next day! With shining eyes, the kids interrupt one another, explaining about the mud pies & the dirt in Ian's hair & the cool hole they dug & the door Daddy made with them for the playhouse & the beetles in the bug-catcher & the bump on Canyon's forhead from when he face-planted on the porch...

It's not the tidy dance that Mommy likes to choreograph. The steps don't fit together in a smooth, orderly way...and they often include late bedtimes & someone getting hurt & eating too many treats... But the Daddy dance has a specific, unique beauty and purpose that Mommy just can't duplicate. And the kids need that Daddy dance. They need the spontaneity, and the adventure, and the independence that dancing with Daddy brings.

So when I come home after ballet class, after errands, and grocery shopping...I'm surprised and pleased to find a tidy house, with candles lit & soft music playing. It's just after 8pm, and the little boys are already in bed. Everything is peaceful & quiet. And a little disconcerting. Did I somehow fail to let Kevin know how much I appreciate & cherish the Daddy dance? How vital it is for the children? Has he given it up, in exchange for my ballet-world-Mommy-version of parenting? And then with relief I find it: a soaking wet bath rug, little piles of toddler-clothes in the laundry room, wrappers from the "Papa Treats" that were no doubt consumed far too late. After we've prayed with the big kids & sung lullabies & tucked everyone in for the night, Kevin whispers to me about the hilarity of bath time, the trampoline adventures, the peanut-butter-&-jelly-sandwich dinner made by Caleb & Autumn. I smile and sigh, and think that I've never loved him more. And that is the Daddy dance.