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I have a 12 year old and the beginnings of her embarrassment as a direct result of me just being me has begun. My cold winter days are warmed with sick burns and the sting of Grade A eye rolls of exasperation. I have been informed explicitly of the rules for school drop offs: 1. Please only talk to the parents. 2. Do not speak to my friends, unless spoken to. 3. Do not share any personal stories or information about our lives. MOM. I’M SERIOUS. LIKE LITERALLY NOTHING. Ummmm. Ok. at least she said please. Sometimes, things get personal,”Mom, Tina Fey was also born in 1970 and she doesn’t have brown spots on her face.” I usually respond with something like, “Try to focus on my inner beauty.” Seconds later, I’m offered a request to snuggle. These are confusing times. If you are seeking sound advice on how to navigate your tween, please consult the likes of Lisa Damour, Jennifer Breheny Wallace, or Judy Blume. However, if you only wish to release parental stress through the art of commiserating, keep reading.

Our sudden jolt towards adolescence reminded me of something I witnessed at a Bat Mitzvah, 15 years ago. 

This was my first Bat Mitzvah and it just so happened to also be meticulously executed by one of Manhattan’s top matriarchs. The religious ceremony was elegant and modern, and the 13 year old celebrant delivered a sophisticated and well rehearsed speech that could have easily been a TED Talk. 

The after party had Met Gala quality coordination. There were “party motivators”, hired actors who mingled and kept things moving, with great success.  They greeted the guests dressed as paparazzi, snapping photos as we entered. Every bite of food I tried and sip of drink I drank was delicious. After dinner, the guests were “party motivated” to the dance floor. Somehow it didn’t feel like too much, it was simply a great party. 

I was married at the time and these friends were from “his” side. I had gotten to know a handful of them on a 50th Birthday vacation to Umbria for one of this social circle’s prestigious members. These were the type of New Yorkers who had 2 bathroom apartments, the ultimate signal of success. Doctors, writers, lawyers, you know, elite executives of all flavors. I had strong admiration for them, but my favorite couple was Ari and Rachel. 

Ari and Rachel had been married 20 years and had two daughters, 12 and 13. Unlike many couples at this stage, they still liked each other and the evidence was visible: kissing, hand holding, and spontaneous eruptions of laughter between the two of them. They were both delightful people. I found myself in conversation with Ari the most. We shared a love for silliness and Tom Foolery. He had a main character energy with a complex composition of ingredients: joyful, empathetic, incredibly fun, razor sharp intellect and a cutting wit. His entry into or exit out of any conversation was memorable. I never knew if it would be the perfect morsel of humor or a snarky observation with incredible insight, much like a New York tween who can instinctively chop someone’s ego to the bone. 

The night of the party, Ari confided in me that he had recently watched the movie Raising Arizona with his daughters and that they did not think it was funny.  He was devastated, but he didn’t give up.  He told them to watch it again. “Watch it over and over until you do think it’s funny,” he instructed them. Ari seemed to take developing their sense of humor on the same level as academics, sports or music, of which his children were surely also accomplished. I admired his commitment to passing the art of comedy down to the next generation.

The party music was getting louder. A group of 13 year old girls took to the dance floor. They looked like a gathering of adorable baby giraffes wearing what was clearly their first set of high heels and a heavy self-application of lipstick. Katy Perry’s “Hot and Cold” began to play and the entire party erupted into cheers. All ages swarmed the dance floor. Ari and Rachel were cutting a rug with an elegance that was giving “natural talent with a side of dance lesson “. They knew every single word to “Hot and Cold” like only parents that have had to hear a song on constant rotation against their will can. Ari wasn’t simply lip syncing, he was full on belting out lyrics loudly and proudly. His daughters were horrified. “Dad! Dad! Daaaaddddd!!!!” They both shouted in chorus with an underlying panic. He ignored them. The strobe lights added a slow motion feeling of drama to the scene unfolding, New York’s most sophisticated adults bending and shaking with full body laughter as their teens shrieked in disgust. An evening of juvenescence in a Manhattan zip code. 

More teen panic ensued,”DAD STOP! DAADDDD! STOP!!!!! STOPPPPPPP! Go sit down.” Their pleas to deter the situation were impenetrable to Ari’s improvisational choreography to one of the pop anthems of the time. His daughters recoiled with nervous laughter and blushing faces. The 13 year old was hating it the most. I had the urge to give her a paper bag to breathe into so she could calm herself. Can one die from embarrassment? In an escalated twist, Ari broke out into the worm and popped up with some type of a mini toe touch. This was an impressive move from any person, much less a middle aged dad. I am guessing that Ari was close to 50 and that toe touch really warranted a level of respect of his current fitness situation. At that, the teens accepted their fate. They had no choice but to return to their own fun, Ari had won. At the end of the song, he left the dance floor and went to get a drink completely unfazed by it all. 

I had witnessed a master parent share his irrepressible joy to his offspring in real time. Just like his efforts to create a legacy of comedy appreciation with Raising Arizona, his methods of modeling joy through interpretive dance were not initially well received either. However, they are still echoed today in this very essay and hopefully in the adult lives of his children forever.

I have no advice. I only offer a little elixir of relief: always remember the comforting resource of the tales of those who have been in your shoes before, never underestimate the power of dance, and under no circumstances should you forget the magic coping cure of comedy. If you lose your way, try watching Raising Arizona over and over again until you can find the funny.