Thanks to some very bright, energetic moms, of which I was not one, the work and set-up was all coordinated perfectly. I was happy to receive my to-do list and do it.
Of course, at the same time I had to help my own daughter get ready for the dance, which involved matching outfits with her bestie and battling her desire to wear her new, pink suede flats in the falling snow.
(They have bows with rhinestones on the toes, and I can't blame her for wanting to wear them every waking minute. I would have killed for those things when I was 8.)
We arrived at the dance and sprang into action. The girls ran around in their sparkly dresses, while we flung food on trays and slung them onto long tables. Heart decorations were duct-taped to the walls and the tables were set with plastic tablecloths and confetti.
Our guests arrived and the girls ran on the floor, intent on doing Gangnam style and ignoring the dads.
As usual, some unforeseen, last--minute problems arose. We were short a few Brownie patches. The weather predictions were growing dire, and we had to schedule dads to take pictures of other dads with their girls.
At one point, as I dashed from the kitchen to the sign-in area, I realized that the dance floor itself had quietened down. Gangnam style had been replaced with an old slow song (I believe it was Love Me Tender) and the girls - were actually dancing with their fathers.
Picture this: a group of Big Guys wearing uncomfortable neckties and starched shirts, holding little girls in red and pink sequined dresses and sashaying in silence to that old song. Some of them, my own Big Guy included, had their daughters up in their arms and twirled them around, to the satisfaction of all.
My hands smelled like hoagie sandwiches, and I had a blister on one heel. I knew that later I would have to clean up a messy girls' bathroom and throw away one gabillion of cups of pink lemonade.
Yet, at that one moment, the universe stopped and everything made sense.