Wednesday 15 October 2025
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My 5-Year-Old Daughter Said She Wanted To Take Pole Dancing Lessons. Here s What I Told Her.

“Mom, how do I get rid of these wrinkles?” My 17-year-old daughter Amelia tugs at her oversized T-shirt – the one with the red race car on the front – that she wears over her cut-off shorts. I want to freeze the moment right here and never let her get any older. Better yet, I want to wrap my arms around her and squeeze her back down to kindergarten. Just for a day. But it’s impossible.Instead, I play it cool.“Oh, no problem – throw it in the dryer. I just put some stuff in there that’ll take them out.”The author s daughter, Amelia.She reaches arm over arm and shimmies out of the shirt without blinking. She doesn’t think for a moment about being nearly naked in front of anyone. She wears string bikinis like bakers wear aprons. Amelia loves freedom. Bending over the hot dryer, I spot a corner of an old snapshot of her and her brother that hides almost out of view under the appliance. I inch it out with my big toe.Joseph’s staring at the camera, a look of sheer dread and confusion on his face, as if the world could end in a moment. In contrast, Amelia is popping into the picture behind him, bright brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and wide, jazz fingers spread apart at each knuckle.I stifle a chuckle as I remember this day over a decade ago. The author s children around the time they visited Las Vegas.Five-year-old Amelia sauntered through a Las Vegas hotel lobby. Before her father’s and my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, she slipped away, inching her way to the edge of a narrow dance floor between the check-in counter and a bar that was, on that day, a stage topped with an exotic dancer.Her chubby pointer finger suspended in the air. With a faraway look in her glassy-chestnut eyes, she inhaled the lovely stripper’s sparkly red leotard, transfixed by the woman’s moves on the pole. I could see Amelia’s chest rise and fall as her quiet breath exited and then sucked in again through her tiny, slightly parted, rosebud lips.“Oh God!” I whispered to no one in particular as my eyes darted over to my clueless husband, who was busy checking us in.I began to worry. What’s going on in Amelia’s mind? Will this have some kind of damaging effect on her? Is she in danger? Trying to be casual, I quietly slipped beside her and whispered, “Boo.” She paid me no attention.“Hey, you! Earth to Meals!” I waved my hand in her face and pinched her elbow playfully. “Hey, honey, we got our room, we better go.” She craned her neck to force herself to face me earnestly, though her eyes kept darting longingly back to the woman on the bar.“OK.” Her chubby cheeks were forlorn. “But Mom? I wanna take those dance lessons.”The author and Amelia around the time of the trip to Las Vegas.I held back giggles. What do you say to a little girl who lets you hold their soul like that? I know many people might be horrified if their daughter saw a pole dancer at such a young age.Old Puritan belief systems have deep roots in us. But as a parent, I’ve never wanted to hand my preconceptions about the world and the complex behaviours of humanity to my children. It’s because I’ve learned as soon as I say I’m absolutely right about something, I often find I’m absolutely wrong. I grabbed Amelia’s hand to go, but then I stopped myself because my daughter was still admiringly transfixed on the dancer. And suddenly, I wanted to admire her too. She was in her early 20s, confident, and her face held the wide smile of the little girl she once was.Perfectly made. And strong as hell, climbing that pole.“I’m with you,” I elbowed Amelia. “I wanna take those lessons, too.” This woman, strong and sexy, yes, but also seeming to feel joy in her body. She moved so naturally and to her own rhythm that I suspect she knew how beautiful she was – on the inside. I prayed my Amelia would feel that someday, too. I mean, maybe not pole dancing, but who knows?She never asked about the dancer again. I did enrol her in more traditional dance classes later that year. She towered over the rest of the petite girls, though, and she didn’t follow the choreographed moves like the others.It was like she felt the music in her own way and leaned into her awkward confidence. I was proud. Eventually, she grew to 6 feet and took up basketball. Now, as we wait for the dryer to finish, I hold the photo up to Amelia.“Do you remember this moment – seeing the dancer in Vegas and wanting to take her lessons?”She tilts her head, then says, “Maybe?” before it seems to dawn on her. “Ohhh, yeah.”“Do you remember what you said?” I ask sheepishly.“Didn’t I ask to take those lessons?”“Uh-huh.”I grin at my daughter, who’s now almost as tall as the pole. “Would you still ... want to?”She pulls out her phone. Searches for lessons. A whole slew of bright red circles fill the map on her screen.“Mom. We should do it.”“OK, but what we should really do is push-ups,” I lower myself to the kitchen floor, “to build up arm strength – I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as she made it look.”The buzzer sounds on the dryer. Amelia retrieves her warm T-shirt.“Thanks,” she says.The author s daughter, Amelia, playing basketball.Her athletic yet soft and feminine frame takes up a lot of space – space she owns. Space her body deserves and enjoys. Her shoulders draw back before she throws the shirt back on, grabs her phone and spins around. “I’m going to hang out with friends before practice.”She glances back. “Sign us up.”And as she strides away, I reach out my hand like a benediction because I can’t help it. One hand suspended in ether, just like hers was that day in Las Vegas, and I rest my other palm on my chest. I think of the beautiful dancer from a dozen years ago and sigh. Thank you. I pray she’s well. I pray for her and all people who dance and sing and for those who do sex work and fight daily against stereotypes of damaged or, worse, criminal. I whisper to her through space and time: You helped us both understand and love our bodies.I breathe deep and thank all women – happy I am one. We are connected, and since we only get this short time in which to be housed in these beautiful bodies, I pray for the whole human race in this moment, too: to open our eyes, accept new possibilities, have fun and move our bodies however we want to.The gift – no, the right – of living shame-free.Because once, a decade ago, an innocent little girl’s sincerity and sweetness instantly eradicated all the negative ideas about women and stripping and sexuality I’d grown up with.Kerith Mickelson is a freelance writer and high school English teacher. When she’s not playing darts and cooking with her three kids and husband, she leads yoga and tai chi classes. On weekends, she coordinates skateboard events for foster kids. She writes about memory, motherhood, illness and faith, sometimes rooted in Catholic ideas, sometimes Buddhist, sometimes drawing on images of everyday beauty in family and the fragility that comes with loving deeply. Her writing is featured in Notre Dame Magazine and Her View From Home. Her work also earned honourable mention in the 2024 Writer’s Digest Writing Contest in the spiritual writing category. Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.Related...I Found The Perfect Surgeon To Do My Tummy Tuck – But I Couldn t Stop Thinking About 1 Thing I Think We Have A Dead Bedroom. My Wife Has A Wildly Different Take. My Historic Home Is Beautiful. It Was Also Slowly Killing My Triplets.


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