I have been to the mountain top

I have seen the promised land where your eldest wakes up to goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night, where he goes the whole night without wetting the bed. What a beautiful land it is, but my three day glimpse is not over and now I need to go to Rite-Aid and buy some pull-ups.

Car conversations

As we're driving to the South Bay, Rowan began talking.

"My brothers and sisters are coming to my party," my oldest daughter stated.

"You have a brother and his name is Jory and your sister's name is Baby," my oldest informed his younger sibling.

"Yes, I do have brothers and sisters- -" she continued.

"Your brother's name is Jory and your sister's name is Layla," he interjected firmly.

"My brothers and sisters live with my daddy," she responded.

"We don't have a daddy!" he retorted.

"I do have a daddy," she answered.

"What's his name?" he asked.

Unrecognizable answer given.

"Okay, you two. Let's be quiet," I jumped in before the argument started up again.

"Mommy, you're coming to my party," the baby announced.

Look at my baby saving the day with talks about her imaginary party. Amazing what your children know, but don't say. And how sometimes they aren't down with pretending.

Growing Babies

Sometimes before the baby wakes up, I look down at her tiny little feet and lift one up and kiss it. Such a tiny little foot attached to my tiny little baby. Except she's not so tiny, that "tiny" foot wears a size six. But for some reason in our queen sized bed, she looks so innocent and tiny, her hands and feet look so small.

The drool that sometimes runs down the side of her mouth, a sign she's not my sweet, little non-drooling baby. Or the stinky morning breath, another sign she's not a tiny, formula fed baby. In her sleep, she's not strong willed, doesn't give attitude, she's just my sleeping, tiny baby who I love endlessly. I wish I could freeze these moments in time.

Words

"I'm just dumb that's why I can't find it."

"Excuse me?!" I asked, my six-year-old who stood before me covering his mouth. Yep, dude I heard you. "What did you just say?"

He hemmed and hawed, then finally spoke. "I said, dumb."

"We do not say that. You do not say that about yourself or anyone else."

"Okay."

"Is it true?"

"No."

"Did God create dumb humans?"

"No."

"No, He did not. He made beautifully and wonderfully made creatures. I never want to hear you say that again, do you understand?"

"Yes," he answered, properly chastised and educated.

"Good."

Parenthood was much simpler before he started "thinking thoughts."

The question

I walked up to the counter at the library to check out some DVDs and books. The librarian and I started chatting as she checked me out. She inquired about TTT who usually were in tow when I came to the library. I told her they were in the car with their older cousin, waiting for me.

And then she asked, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

And since we've become BFFs during my weekly Saturday library visits, I said, "Sure."

"Are you married to an Asian man?"

I smiled and said, "No."

"Oh, because the little girl you bring in looks Asian."

I paused for a beat. How to answer. How to answer. "Her father is Asian."

"Oh."

After I said that, I didn't like that answer. I should have said their father is Asian. Rowan's birth father falls into the Pacific Islander/Asian category. Though I'm thinking next time I'm asked that question, I think I'm going to switch up my reply with a "their father is a Jewish carpenter," cause at the end of the day that really is the most truthful answer.

Searching

I was reading my wonderfully brilliant Entertainment Weekly when I came upon an article about Tom Shadyac. Tom directed such films Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, Bruce Almighty, among others. He recently made a documentary about his search for enlightenment. He sold his mansion bought a trailer, got rid of his fancy cars, private jets in his search for more. He talked to philosophers, doctors, therapists, physicists, clergymen, and other like men and women. At one point in the documentary, Tom is hooked up via electrodes to yogurt. You know because we're all connected to each other.

As I read the article, I thought about another celebrity who was searching for meaning. Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes of TLC was making her own documentary at the time of her death about her search for meaning. In Lisa's documentary, she was somewhere in South America with her entourage absorbing the teachings of some spiritual guru. And during her off times from the guru, Lisa spoke about her childhood about the grandmother who took her and her siblings to church every Sunday and then immediately took back the church clothes after service because grandma paid for them. Oh charity does begin at home. The rapper/singer spoke about numerology, ghosts, and all sorts of other false religions. It was so clear to see, like Tom, Lisa knew there was more to this life than living and dying, but sadly she couldn't hear Jesus knocking at the door of her heart.

While in South America, she accidentally hit a little boy who ran into the middle of the road to fetch his ball. As she spoke about the accident and the boy's subsequent death, she mentioned his last name was Lopez which was pronounced the same way as her last name Lopes and how she believed death was after her but this time got this little, innocent boy instead. How my heart broke at this woman, this mother, who was so desperately searching for truth and had no idea she was searching for God.

The video camera was recording as she was talking to her friends and then suddenly the screen went black. I rewound the show (I love Tivo) because I couldn't figure out what happened, then it dawned on me. This was where she died. I had literally just watched the last few seconds of her life. She tried to get around a car on a two way highway and ran into a truck coming in the opposite direction. If I remember correctly, Lisa died instantly and her passengers had varying degrees of injuries but survived. In this foreign land, her quest for the truth ended abruptly and sadly she never seemingly discovered the Truth.

I hope Tom learns and accepts the Truth before he dies. And I pray for my children, my niece and nephews, my loved ones that they all come to know Christ for themselves, have a personal relationship with Him. That when they become aware there is more to this life, that their search is as simple as "Jesus, please come in."

But there's more to this life
Than living and dying
More than just trying to make it through the day
More to this life
More than these eyes alone can see
There's more than this life alone can be

So where do we start
To find every part
Of what makes this life complete
If we turn our eyes
To Jesus we’ll find
Life’s true beginning is there at the cross where He died


He died to bring us more to this life
Than living and dying
More than just trying to make it through the day
More to this life
More than these eyes alone can see
There's more than this life alone can be

Mornings with Layla

"I want my chips," Layla cried, as she popped up from the bed.

Really? You wake up and the first words out of your mouth are about food? Oh wait, my bad, she's not really awake.

"Baby, you ate all the chips, remember?" I tried to remind her.

"Noooo."

"Yes, you and your siblings ate all the chips on Saturday."

"Oh," she said with the disappointment as clear the Hollywood sign on a cloud free day. "I want cheerios."

"Baby, why don't you go back to sleep and when you wake up we'll talk about you getting some cheerios."

"Okay," she responded, then laid back down.

I put the covers on top of her, kiss her head, and ready myself for the next round.

"Baby, it's time to get up."

"Nooo. I want cheerios."

There's my girl with her one, two punch. She doesn't want to get up and get dressed, but she would like some tasty cheerios. I thought children had taste buds, but they must not be fully developed because those cheerios are tasteless. But I'm not the ones eating them so it's all good.

"You have to get dressed, brush your teeth, then we can talk about you getting some cheerios, okay?"

"I want cheerios."

The vicious cycle begins again. Rowan was like this as a baby. This obsession of food first thing in the morning. Jory was never like this. I wonder if it's a girl thing?

Outside the clique

It's amazing how easy it is to fall into your own clique. Growing up all my friends were friends from school which meant the majority of my adult friends went to Christian schools and were Christians. I never really thought about it. I had friends who had similar thoughts and beliefs like me.

But recently I've discovered how comfortable we get, how our cliques alter our outlook. I took my little cousin to AWANA with TTT and when I went to pick the kids up, the teacher told me that she was glad Jory had brought his cousin. She told me one of the things she loved about leading an AWANA class is reaching the kids who haven't heard the Word or don't know much about the Bible. Wait, what?!? What was she talking about? Of course, our little cousin knew the Bible. My aunt was on the usher board, she was in church every Sunday. She raised my cousin in the church, but - - When I thought about, I couldn't think of the last time I saw my cousin and her daughter in church. When my little cousin went to church it was usually with her grandma, my aunt. How could this be? Then I thought about my own childhood.

I went to Baptist schools so I had Bible classes, learning Bible verses, reading about my Bible history, was a part of everyday life. But when I tried to remember my mom reading the Bible with me, or teaching me Christian songs, or discussing the Word with me, my mind drew a semi-blank. I remember us praying together, remember reading Psalms 121 every morning as my mom drove me to Redeemer, and if I had any questions about my Bible homework or with my lesson for Sunday School, but that's it. What I learned about the Bible, the everyday practices came from my teachers, from the youth pastors at my schools' churches, the majority of the Biblical principles that helped shape me I learned outside the home.

I guess it was completely possible and plausible that my little cousin knew little about the Bible. Would my kids know what they know, if I hadn't deepen my relationship with some awesome women who homeschooled, if I hadn't started attending a church bi-monthly where a lot of the members homeschooled, if I hadn't been encouraged by these women to go hear Dr. Voddie Baucham speak, if I hadn't been convicted of the fact that like many others that my children would learn about God via osmosis?

I'm very blessed that I have the friends I have, the loved ones I have, that my eyes and mind have been opened so my children won't be kids who learn about their Savior through osmosis. I need to open my eyes and look outside my safe and secure clique and reach out to those outside it.

This is how it begins

"White people are mean," Jory stated in the car.

Uh??!! What?!?!?! Where did that come from? "Jory, that's not true. Why would you say that? Where did you learn that?"

"From Mrs. Wilson."

"Mrs. Wilson didn't teach you that."

He nodded his head. "Yes, she did."

What could they have been talking about that he came to this conclusion?

"Mommy, who is on the airplane?" he asked changing subjects as a plane flew over our heads.

"People visiting LA. People returning home. Businessmen." White people are mean? We need to discuss this.

"I hope no white people are on the plane."

"What Jory?"

"I hope no white people are on the plane because they are mean."

"Jory, that's not true. White people aren't mean." A call to Mrs. Wilson obviously long pass due.

I called Mrs. Wilson and she told me they had discussed slavery the previous week, but she saw the children weren't getting it so they haven't discussed it since. Well obviously Jory picked up something and decided two plus two equals twelve.

As I sat in my last fost/adopt class, a woman who had adopted a six-year-old boy shared a story with us. One day, she and her son were driving and her son said, "Mexicans are dirty."

"Who taught you that?" she asked.

He told his mom his friend told him. So she asked him if he knew anyone who was Mexican. He said, no. Then she informed him that his daddy, her husband, was Mexican. This information gave her son something to think about.

Why do kids come up with this stuff in the car?


We finally made it home and the discussion continued.

"White people, the color of that," he said, pointing to my white napkin, "are mean."

"No one is the color of Mommy's napkin. And white people aren't mean. Do you know any white people?"

"I'm not white and you're black. Hmm, is Mr. Will white?"

"No, Mr. Will isn't white. But you know who is white? Aunt LaLa, Aunt Dee Dee. The friends you play with at church. Are they mean? Are they not nice?"

"They're nice."

"See, so what you're saying isn't true, right?

"Right."

Just out of nowhere this conversation pops up. And when he asked me if Mr. Will, who is brown, was white, I knew he didn't truly understand this whole color madness us adults came up with. For a little while longer, my son's innocence is protected. Still not truly aware that some of the people who love him have less melanin in their skin than he does or that some have more.

It hit me how easy it is to teach a child to be racist. If I was a racist, I could have just ran with his statement and my six-year-old would have thought all white people were mean even though he didn't have a completely formed idea about race.

I thought about my friend, Carol's dad, who I think was Jory's age when Hitler started taking time out of his school day to teach him racist nonsense. An innocent mind corrupted. A whole generation.

This week I decided it was time for the kids to learn their first dc talk song, "In the Light." Granted, it's not a dc talk original, but their version is the best ever. The disease of self runs through our blood and it truly is a cancer fatal to our souls. We are truly, truly people in need of a Savior.

Happy Valentine's Day!!!

The very first time that I saw your brown eyes
Your lips said, "Hello," and I said, "Hi"
I knew right then you were the one

To my beautiful, amazing, loving, intelligent, adorable ones, Happy Valentine's Day....I love you truly, madly, deeply!!!

I love...

helpful three-year-olds. The oldest of my twins is so amazingly helpful.

"Rowan can you please bring me the deodorant?"

"Okay," she says cheerfully and the next thing you know there she is with it.


"Mommy, I helped the baby take her shirt off," she announces, as I walk into the bathroom to supervise the girls disrobing for bathtime.


"Mommy, see! I got the brush, comb, and lotion for my hair," she says proud of her accomplishments. I only asked that she get the brush and comb.


"Jory, here's your jacket," she says with glee, as she hands her big brother his jacket as she carries her own.


"O-b-e-d-e-n-c-e, Mommy, I singing the song," she sings.

She left out the "i", but hey she's trying. Now if she'd only remember that song when it comes to listening. "Good job, Rowan!"


"Look, Oma, I found your glasses," she smiles, as she presents her Oma's very much needed reading glasses.

I love helpful three-year-olds who do it joyfully.

Feeding off each other

Once upon a time I had a fearless baby who got dunked by Mr. Will in the pool and surfaced with a cough or two, then pushed her wet hair out of her face. When she accidentally dunked herself, she came up sputtering but good. Mr. Will taught her to raise her arms and say, "Hallelujah! if she accidentally swallowed water. She even jumped off the side of the pool into Mr. Will's waiting arms. My baby was a rock star....and now, now she's a crying mess on Saturdays.

Thank you, Lord, for only giving me one screecher! I have my very own Black Canary. But Layla is no short stop in the never ending tears department. Mr. Will use to give them lessons together, but when the baby started morphing into a crying baby, he started doing individual lessons. Sadly, it hasn't helped.

As soon as Layla sees Rowan starting the water works, her empathy over takes her and her tears begins to flow too. The feeding off each other makes swimming lessons loads of fun. Ah twin power gotta love it.

No Talking

"Mommy, we don't talk about Jesus," Jory announced, while we were driving around town.

Uh, what?! What did he just say? I must have misunderstood him. "I'm sorry, Jory, Mommy didn't hear you. What did you say?"

"I said, we don't talk about Jesus," he repeated loud and clear.

Nope. I hadn't misunderstood. "Jory, we talk about Jesus- -"

"No," Jory said, shaking his head. "We don't talk about Jesus on Fridays because of AWANA."

Gotcha. "You mean we don't have devotional time on Fridays because you have it at AWANA."

"Yes," he answered, as if his statement hadn't been the least bit confusing or misleading.

The way the minds of six-year-olds work.

Time

My mom once again had an eyelash in her eye that instead of flowing outward with her other beautiful lashes, it was flowing downward into her eye. I sat on the sofa and she laid her head in my lap as I began to play doctor. (Thank you Discovery Health for all you taught me, I'm pretty confident in my skills now to deliver a baby, even via c-section, how to turn around a breech baby, and how to do lipo. I miss you. I can't believe you let Oprah take you over.)

But back to the story, with the precision of a surgeon I searched for the rogue eyelash or eyelashes as I held a flashlight to give me more light. Eureka! I found it. I fought the wayward one though its whiteness made it difficult to catch for a moment. But catch it, I did. As I was making sure there were no more, I noticed just how many white lashes were mixed in with the black ones. And the skin just millimeters away had lines and creases in it. It wasn't as tight as it once was.


Time waits for no man
Season come and go



My mom is getting older. Her seasons seem to becoming faster and faster. Though if you ask her she says she asks God to let her live to be 103. 103. Another 39 years of Heather's LJ walking this earth? I could handle that. Happily.

Talking, talking, and dreaming

"Where my shoes?" Layla inquired.

"They're on the floor," I answered.

"I want my shoes on," she cried.

"You're on the bed so you can't put your shoes on."

"I wanna buy more shoes."

"You're going to buy some more shoes when you get money?"

"I gonna buy more flip-flops," she answered.

"Okay, baby," I responded back to my sleeping daughter. How do you have whole conversations, particularly ones about buying shoes, in your sleep? Layla is quite the talker in her sleep, while Jory just answers questions asked to him in his dreams or reacts to things said to him.

"Stop that!"

"No, give me my homework."

I've heard him say phrases like that in his sleep. He must have some interesting dreams, but he rarely remembers them.

Another thing my babies are good at, even in the deepest of dreams, is responding to me putting covers on them.

"I don't want any covers, Mommy," Jory firmly says, as he moves from under the blankets.

None of my kids are fond of staying under blankets which is hard for a mommy who is always cold to understand.

"I don't want no covers," Layla says firmly, as she kicks the covers off of her.

Rowan doesn't talk in her sleep or talk in her dreams.

The Sleeping TTT

In his sleep, Jory looks like Jory. My baby looks like himself in his sleep. He doesn't look like the boy who is getting more mischievous as he gets older, who needs to be reminded more often at home and at school that he's not the boss of the younger kids and that the twins have a parent called mommy. Or like the little boy who has put his own twist on his sister's "but you said, 'Yes,'" with his "Don't you remember you said, I could have..."

Rowan is Rowan in her sleep. A thumb in her mouth, sometimes a hand intertwined in her hair. She doesn't look like the little girl who likes to open doors without asking, who can scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in a horror film, who hates swimming lessons like the plague, and who sometimes thinks listening and obeying are options.

Ah, the baby. In her sleep, she looks like a sweet, innocent baby. Not like a baby who jumps off sofas, who thinks sitting in time out for two seconds means time out is over, who gives off attitude when things don't go her way.

They are my lovable, perfect little angels and then they wake up.

You know she's a little bit dangerous

and crazy.

"Mommy, I have to use the bathroom," Layla said.

"Okay, go to the bathroom," I returned.

"You go with me."

"Layla, you're a big girl. You can go to the bathroom by yourself."

"No, you go with me," she cried with tears running down her face.

"Layla, go to the bathroom before you pee on yourself."

The pee pee dance started as the baby continued to cry. "Mommy, go with me. Turn the light on."

I turned on the bathroom light and in she went, as I walked away she started crying even harder. "Layla, you can go to the bathroom by yourself. Go to the bathroom. You better not stand there and pee on yourself."

"Mommy, stay," she demanded through the tears.

"Layla, go to the bathroom." I gave her once last glance and noticed her wet pajama pants. Are you serious?! "Layla, did you just pee on yourself?"

Crying was the answer to my question.

"Where did you pee?"

Through her sobs, she pointed to the area directly in front of the toilet. If she had sat down from that spot and used those arms, like she had done many times before to lift herself up, she would have been sitting on the toilet seat. "Clean it up, Layla."

It's just another maniac Monday, I wish it were Sunday because Monday ended with finding out that listening and Rowan seemed to be enemies today at school. Sunday that's my fun day.

The future is on the wall

Yesterday Layla learned how to open doors. Today she locked me out of our room. But who can blame her? It's not her fault that Oma thought these door knobs were cute and attractive so who cared if they had easy to engage non-key locks. Perfect door hardware for a house with three little kids in it.

But while I wasn't around to stop the hardware purchase, at least I was there to convince her that buying fine china as every day dinnerware was not the best of ideas. One chipped plate or cup and she would have had a heart attack, then been on the war path.

If only if I had been in the know before she purchased the hardwood floor in the kitchen. FYI - hardwood floors, kitchens, and children are a bad mix, a very bad mix.

I can only imagine the things I will have to talk her out of before we finish with the house. Based on her furniture, tile, floor, anything house related choices I sometimes wonder if she thinks she's decorating her mansion in heaven. You know where no one ever drops anything, never breaks anything, never spills anything, never leaves anything on the table. You know where everyone is perfect.

Oh my goodness!!!!

She's learned how to open doors. YIKES!

"Bye, Mommy," she said, holding on to the door knob with one hand and with the other hand she blew kisses to me. "I'll be right back. She opened the door and walked out.

This isn't good. My chicita can open doors. There is no stopping what she can get into.

Sibling Relations

A few years ago, I read an article about a rising USC athlete who went home to visit his mom for spring break and was murdered while riding around town with his friends. My heart broke for his mother who only had the one son. In the article, it mentioned that he and his mother spoke eight times a day and said to my mother, "Who talks to someone eight times a day? I get being close, but really." And without missing a beat she said, "You and Mona." Slam! She was right. She was so right.

Pre-me having kids, I talked to Mona easily four to five times a day. We had no new info to share with each other, no family gossip to talk about, we'd just sit on the phone with each other. Sometimes I would listen to TV with her as I rode the bus home in the evenings. We still talked multiple times a day after Jory, but when baby number two came they started to wane. And now we talk once or twice during the work week and then usually once or twice on Saturday and Sunday.

We weren't always close. I remember as a child being terrified of her. Partly it was me and some was maybe that she was a bit of a moody teen. (We're 7 years apart.) And some was my sister is no miss sunshine, you have to get past that tough looking exterior that can scream "Don't touch me. Don't talk to me." It took me a while to get past that. Now I know she tolerates hugs and kisses very well. She's a big mushy teddy bear.

You don't talk on the phone with someone who questions your parenting decisions if you were really hardcore. "Why is Kayla crying?" "Why aren't you picking her up, if she's crying?" "Oh, give her another piece of cake, she's just a baby." "Why is Mijo ironing his own clothes? He's just a baby." "Why aren't you helping Tigger clean out his closet? You know he's not a slave."

I love my sister. I adore her. I admire her. I wish I could be as awesome a mother as she is, but alas I can only be me.

I pray that TTT will be as close as she and I. I love my brother but for every five phone calls I make, I get one back from him and inevitably they come when I'm away from cell phone. He's not so good with the communication thing, but when I need him he's there. I hope the girls can count on Jory, yet he returns their calls in a timely manner and gasp! call them on his own just to say, "Hi!" and "I love you!"

Siblings who can count on each other, bounce ideas off of each other, babysit each other kids, and love each other like crazy. Be supportive of each other and help each other out like Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.

It started off so well

As I was putting the baby's coat on, she said, "I love you, Mommy," in her cute little baby voice.

My heart beat a little faster as I said, "I love you, too."

To which she said, "I love you, too."

Ahh, my baby girl is such a sweetie.

Fast forward to ten hours later, "I want water. I don want my food," she cried and cried. The cries proceeded to get louder and louder.

"Layla, eat a little more, then you can have some water," I said to her.

"I want milk."

"No milk, water, once you eat some more. People who don't finish their food only get water to drink," I gently reminded her.

Which led to louder cries and stomping of feet and banging hands on her tray table.

"Layla, stop it or you'll take a bath and go to bed until Bible time."

"No, I don wanna go to bed."

"Then stop the whining and complaining."

I won't bore you with the details, but it didn't stop and then I had to go all Supernanny on her and just pick her up and put her back in the bed.

She tired herself out and went to sleep before Bible time. What happened to my sweet loving baby from the morning?
_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Mommy, I can see my breath," Jory and Rowan said as we got into the car.

"I know. It's because it's so cold outside," I informed them.

We all took breaths so we could see them, then we drove to school.

"Ba da da. Baby, it's cold outside," Jory said.

Wait. What? "Jory, what did you say?"

He laughed and said, "Baby, it's cold outside."

Be still my beating heart. While he didn't get the tune right, he did sing the chorus of my favorite Christmas duet. Oh that memory is remembering more and more.

Ten hours later, Jory started his homework. Three hours later, he's still working on it since he can't remember to copy each word in the sentence. He can't remember in one sentence that the first letter should be capitalized, but he remembers in the other sentence. Did I mention he only two sentences to write?

And ten hours later in the life of Rowan, I read a letter her teacher wrote saying she's writing on other people's work and even in the book, plus she laughed during punishment. Seems our last chat about keeping our hands to ourselves didn't seem to get through.

The morning started so great. Laughing, singing, loving children to a night where well....all part of parenting.

Cinderella

Every time I hear Steven Curtis Chapman's song Cinderella, I think about the Chapmans loss of Maria and how all to quickly she was gone. I use to cry when I read deathspace which was a website that linked newspaper articles on the deaths of people to those people's myspace pages.

I don't know how many articles I read about teens dying in car accidents. It drove home just how heavy, how big, how dangerous cars are and how we take the power for granted. I cried as I read about three seniors and one college frosh dying, the cops believed because they were speeding home to make it in time for curfew. I'll be sure to tell TTT, their safety, them making it home in one piece is more important than them getting home minutes after curfew.

It was so strange to go on a web page of this sixteen-year-old who will never grow older. Will never realize her dreams to get married and have children or even to simply go to college. Forever on the myspace page she remains a junior in high school who is a cheerleader, standing next to the new car she got that she will ultimately die in. And as the years pass, the song she loved so much will become more and more dated, yet always put you firmly back in the year and the time when she could breathe the air and smell flowers.

Oh the unimaginable pain of losing a child. There are things we will never understand, though I can say uh, thanks Adam and Eve, but through it all "Ani hu ha’Elohim" (above all else, there is God.)




She spins and she sways
To whatever song plays
Without a care in the world
And I'm sitting here wearing
The weight of the world on my shoulders

It's been a long day
And there's still work to do
She's pulling at me
Saying "Dad, I need you

There's a ball at the castle
And I've been invited
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone...

She says he's a nice guy and I'd be impressed
She wants to know if I approve of the dress
She says, "Dad, the prom is just one week away
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone

She will be gone

Well, she came home today with a ring on her hand
Just glowing and telling us all they had planned
She says, "Dad, the wedding's still six months away
But I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone