I didn't cry. I didn't think melancholy thoughts about my son as a baby or about him growing up and dating girls other than his mom. I didn't turn to mush when the DJ intentionally played tear-jerker, country songs. I didn't well up once.
Obscure reference from the musical A Chorus Line:
AND I DUG RIGHT DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF MY SOUL
TO SEE WHAT I HAD INSIDE.
YES, I DUG RIGHT DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF MY SOUL
AND I TRIED, I TRIED.
THEY ALL FELT SOMETHING,
BUT I FELT NOTHING.
I thought I would be emotional last night about my mom - the only person I've known who would truly appreciate the 5th Grade Cotillion Mother Son Sweetheart Dance - not being alive to see my oldest son in his blue blazer and red striped tie and his first boutonniere. But I felt nothing.
We ate cake and drank punch. We foxtrotted to The Black Eyed Peas "I Gotta Feeling" and did The Electric Slide with all the other parent-kid couples. He had an excellent time doing the Macarena with other 5th grade boys while not talking to the 5th grade girls.
It was fine. It was wonderfully just fine.
Another day, another story,