A Moment Frozen in Time
How a daddy/daughter trip to the theater reminded me to cherish every moment
This past weekend, I took my oldest daughter to see Frozen at the Orpheum Theater. It was the first Broadway show for either of us, and we were both pretty pumped for it. Rainbow Flower (her self-selected pseudonym) was excited because Frozen was one of her favorite Disney movies. I was excited because it’s a story about the perils of awkward people spending time in social situations.
I’ll reiterate here what I shared on Twitter:
The performances were exceptional, the choreography entertaining, the music and visual effects captivating. It was a remarkable show.
But this newsletter isn’t about theater reviews (yet?). It’s about, among other things, parenting. Likewise, this weekend’s trip to the theater was not really about the theater, either.
I’m not a big Musical Guy. By that I mean I’m not particularly musically talented, nor am I, in more relevant context, a regular enjoyer of musicals. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the skill and effort required to perform them, of course, it’s simply that I wasn’t ever in that world in my high school or college days, so it isn’t something I’ve spent much time consuming.
I don’t know if Rainbow Flower will be drawn to the theater. She’s been taking dance classes for about three years now, and she likes watching performance-filled shows like America’s Got Talent and The Masked Singer, so it certainly wouldn’t be surprising if she travels down that path. But all of that is a question for another day, another week, another year in the future, and one of the things I’ve learned since becoming a dad six years ago is how important it is to be present in the present.
I’m not saying this is something I’ve become excellent at doing, mind you, but it’s importance is never not felt.
Worrying about the future is kind of my thing. I’m a planner, and I like to know what to expect when the future arrives, so there’s always a simmering worry built in to my day-to-day life. Not typically overwhelming, just, there, and I’ve grown accustomed to it over the years.
When RF was born, those worries about the future didn’t go away. If anything, they grew louder, with questions about how we’ll afford college, how we’ll balance work and life, how we’ll afford diapers and food and clothes and shoes that she’ll grow out of before wearing them more than twice. It’s a lot.
But in the blink of an eye, a screaming one-month-old turned into a walking one-year-old. One blink later and she’s three, talking about her favorite colors and animals. Blink again and she’s finishing kindergarten, reading chapter books and telling her parents how many countries are in Europe. 44, by the way.
Life never stands still, and unlike Anna (SPOILER ALERT) kids are never frozen in place. While that intensifies the feelings of worry about the future, it’s also forced me to learn to appreciate the moments in which I find myself.
After our youngest daughter (Batman, a pseudonym RF chose, but one I may have to change to avoid getting slapped with a cease-and-desist letter from DC Comics) was born, my wife and I wanted to make sure both kids got plenty of time just for them, special days where they could feel as cherished as they truly are.
So I purchased two tickets for Frozen, and as the date approached, RF asked if I could take her to the show, with my wife spending time with Batman our youngest (I really have to change that).
RF told me about how she wanted it to be a fancy night, with both of us getting dressed up. I told her we could go to a restaurant downtown for dinner before the show. For weeks leading up to it, she kept saying how excited she was.
And on Sunday afternoon, we got all dolled up, with RF in a long, flowing lavender dress and sparkly silver low-heel shoes, me in a pastel purple shirt and navy suit. We took photos at home before heading to the Old Market area of downtown Omaha. We ate a delicious dinner of a hamburger and gnocchi saltimbocca, then got ice cream for dessert. We went to the Orpheum, found our seats in the balcony and watched the show, and at the end, we drove home.
Just like that, in those 85 words and only five hours of real time, it was over.
Moments, by definition, don’t last. One begins, it ends, and it’s gone, succeeded by another. That moment will not return, there is no replay. This fact isn’t exclusive to parenthood, but for me, it’s parenthood that has made it abundantly clear. Thankfully, I’ve become more aware of this, and it’s allowed me to more frequently treasure those moments when they happen.
As I posed with RF for pictures before heading out, I looked at her, knowing she’s never going to be this exact age again. Sitting next to her at dinner, I smiled as she ate so carefully to avoid spilling ketchup on her fancy dress. And for most of the show, while the performers were incredible, I couldn’t help but glance over at RF, wondering what she thought of it all.
She mostly smiled, occasionally frowned during the sad parts, and covered her ears when the songs were a bit too loud. She, like many of the kids in attendance, sang along to some of the songs, clapped at the close of several numbers, and laughed at Olaf and Sven.
Toward the end of Elsa’s first rendition of “Let it Go,” there’s a part of the song with a big crescendo, and after a burst of light, Elsa emerges with a shimmering, stunning gown. The entire audience oohed and aahed, and I looked at RF to see her face filled with complete awe and wonder. It was a look of astonishment. It was joy.
It was a moment.
Like all moments, it ended, as the final notes of the song were played. The moment was gone, but the memory of that moment is still very much entrenched in my mind. I don’t know if RF will remember it as vividly, but I hope she has a lifetime of other moments worth remembering, too, and I hope to be there, and be present, for as many of them as possible.
I can’t pretend that I have parenting figured out. I still worry about the future, and I know that there will be times where that worry prevents me from always being fully in the moment. But I’m grateful that for at least that day, in that moment, I could be there.