In an effort to be uplifting, news programs tend to end with a short, feel good piece. Using this strategy last night, the final news story was about a father-daughter dance class, highlighting African American fathers and their young dance daughters. From the short bit I saw, it looked like ballet, fathers lifting their tutued daughters into the air and twirling them around (it’s very important that you read this using the first definition, not the second one listed by Collins dictionary).

I was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, one ear on the news. Carter was, for some reason, quite taken with this news story and came into the kitchen to share it with me. He asked me if I knew that there were father-daughter dances. I told him I did and then asked him if he had a daughter if he would take her to such a dance. He was unsure if he would, perhaps struggling to visualizing having a daughter of his own.

Always the one to quickly point out any inequality, Carter persisted on the subject. He insisted that there needed to be mother-son dances. Then he looked at me, eyes squinted ever so slightly, “But I don’t think you could pick me up.”

I laughed and explained that typically it is the male dancer who picks up the female dancer and so he would be the one to pick me up.  At this he tried unsuccessfully to pick me up.

Then he asks the question – “How much do you weigh, momma?” to which I quickly respond – “How much do you think I weigh?”

He looks me up and down and proclaimed that I weigh 149 pounds (so specific!). I gasp in mock horror at his response.

When from down the hall Cody, ever wise beyond his 14 years, calls out, “Carter! Don’t you know you never answer that question?!?”