When I was in elementary school, I was enrolled in Spanish classes. I would stay after school with some classmates and practice vocabulary, sing songs, and march around singing the ABC’s. I still get that Spanish ABC’s song stuck in my head sometimes, it’s very catchy.
One cold December day in 2009, my Spanish class was busy at work preparing for our recital that evening. The recitals happened during the regular Spanish class time, and parents were encouraged to come and watch their children present what they had learned during their class and receive a certificate of completion. I was nervous that day; it was almost time for the recital, and my dad hadn’t shown up yet. I remember scanning the crowd (of like 15 parents) repeatedly, begging my Spanish teacher to please just wait a few more minutes, my dad had promised he’d be there that day. Eventually, my teacher decided that the show must go on. Everyone else’s parents were there, waiting for the performance of a lifetime. We had to start.
My dad never made it to that recital. He showed up at the end of the performance during our usual class pickup time as if it were a normal day. I was absolutely devastated. I couldn’t believe that my dad hadn’t shown up, especially considering just how impressive it was that I had learned nosotros that year. It was such an important event to me, and I was mortified that my dad was the only parent who was a no-show. The recital was written down on the jumbo calendar we had in the kitchen, and he had just forgotten. I made it very clear to him that he had no excuse to miss my recital and that he could never redeem himself. This was not something I was going to forget about.
My dad, of course, felt absolutely terrible. He couldn’t believe that he had forgotten about the recital, and he was kicking himself for missing it. Missing an event like this was extremely unusual for him and it was probably the first (and last) time he did this. Not only did he have a seven-year-old giving him shit, he also couldn’t believe what he had done. A few weeks later, my dad redeemed himself. He asked me if I wanted to eat dinner at the American Girl store at the Mall of America. At the time, I was absolutely obsessed with these dolls. The American Girl store at the mall had a certain vibe that was simply unmatched: pink from floor to ceiling, miniature displays of dolls doing activities from surfing to brushing their teeth, a hospital at which you could get your doll repaired, doll ear piercing, and a doll-inclusive restaurant.
The night we went to the American Girl Cafe was truly a night to remember. We tried and failed two times before eating there, but apparently, a doll shop operating a restaurant does not have the most convenient dining hours. (We ended up at Rainforest Cafe one of those times, which was also mind-blowing, but I’ll save that for another blog post.) My dad, who normally wore shorts, a t-shirt, and Keens, dressed up in a suit, bought me and my doll flowers and whisked us away to the mall.
The three of us sat at a (pink) table overlooking the stunning view of the Nickelodeon Universe theme park inside the mall as we enjoyed our dinner. I should clarify: I brought my doll along to our date because it was really her time to shine. We dined on the “picnic plate” – a burger, a hot dog, fries, and fruit, each of which came miniature-sized to share with our distinguished plastic guest sitting in a high chair next to us. My dad and I (and the doll) ordered milkshakes and enjoyed a lovely evening listening to the muffled screams of people riding the rollercoasters at Nickelodeon Universe next door. It was perfect.
I have little to no recollection of the content of this extremely important Spanish recital that my dad missed. In the long run, none of the recitals proved to be too memorable. The night we spent at the American Girl Store at the Mall of America, however, was incredible and I will never forget that. My dad sure knows how to pull off a grand gesture. Sadly, the store in the mall closed down a while ago, and we will never have the opportunity to dine at this divine establishment again. Plus, the dolls are stored in plastic bins in the basement in hopes of grandchildren using them. But I’ll be sure to take a page from my dad’s book if I ever find myself missing my kids’ Spanish recital.
