Tag: Parenting

My Little Girl

August 25, 2022 / Tom

There she was, my little girl, getting set to leave me.

Yeah, I know. As the cliche goes, she wasn’t really leaving me. But she was. It was her time, and she was grasping it. It was a moment she had worked hard for, and she was taking it. I was the nest and she was flying away. All I could do is watch.

Was it really, though, all I could do? Of course not. As a man in love with a woman, in this case a Dad in love with his Daughter, I could do quite a bit. I could encourage her. I could help her. When she looked back, I could be there. I could offer a whisper, or a shout, or I could just be silent. This wasn’t about me, so whatever decibel level she needed ,she would have. Otherwise, I’d keep my mouth closed and my heart open.

Her older sister had left too. That was different, though. Her sister stayed close to home, so was within a short drive should she need me. My Little Girl, in the truest form of her being her, decided to go out of State, a not-so-short 7 hour drive from home. This was her toughness showing itself, her badassness claiming ownership of her life, and her independence shouting “I will let you know when I need you.” It was all the things I loved about My Little Girl, and all the things the Dad in me wanted to change even as the heart in me refused to try.

I always just wanted her to be her. Nothing more, nothing less.

The Day Had Come

So now it was the day. The day I had both loathed and looked so forward to. This was the day when I could no longer protect her easily or be there quickly if she called. The day when all of my admiration of this warrior woman would mix with all my regrets as a Dad, when all of my hopes for My Little Girl meshed with all my fears of her departure. The day when she was to give birth to herself, and her parents would become more of passive spectators than of active participants.

I stood in amazement as she was born, first crowning and then flying out of the womb. I watched her fight for life her first 10 days of it, and stood in awe of this baby who was somehow strong, independent and never willing to give up. Memories sprouted of when she would push her older sister around on a Playskool trike even before she could walk on her own. Yeah, this was a badass.

I can remember those moments when she’d hide behind her mom or me, afraid of new parts of the world showing themselves. Then one day she took off, facing the world fearlessly with a field hockey stick in hand. She transformed from the shy girl who would never talk to anyone into a kick-ass champion almost overnight. This had been her way since the day of her birth, and this would be her way on the day she gave birth to herself.

I know this was not really the day she had given birth to herself. It was, however, the day I saw her as a woman, and as someone I knew would do well as long as the world did not try to fuck with her. She had birthed herself long before I saw it and in the gradual stages that led to this day. In this moment, though, my eyes were fully opened even if shrouded by tears.

The Lesson Learned

Like any good lesson, this one keep evolving and showing itself. She’s gone, but still here. She calls and texts and send pictures in her time, in her way, just like always. I am not there to protect her, but perhaps she doesn’t need my protection as much as she once did. I’m not there to help her when she calls, but I’ve realized she rarely called for help. She has always helped herself, and figured it out, and proved to us all that she is capable of being…her.

I’ve come to realize that my fear was not of her leaving the nest, but of my failing to be there should she need me. I feared not being needed, not that she wasn’t capable. My fears had little to do with her, they were all about what I saw as my own shortcomings.

Just as she has since the moment I knew she existed, she continues to teach me lessons. Her older sister started the process and her younger brother keeps it going, each of them teaching me in unique ways. Just like her sister, neither is my little girl anymore but both will always be My Little Girl. My son will always be My Boy, no matter how big and strong he gets. That’s the thing about being a Dad. As we get older we had better get wiser, or we will simply cease to exist. It’s also true of being a human. Sometimes we’re frail. Sometimes we’re even pathetic. Yet we are blessed with the power to learn lessons, to effect change in ourselves, and to change the world in our newness. We are fucking powerful that way, and sometimes…well usually…all we need is something to love to show us the way to greatness.

The Fragility of My Mortality

November 4, 2019 / Tom

It was bedtime and, as often the case, I went in to sit with my 13-year old son to end the day. Being a parent can be hard and sometimes the lessons we need to teach our children can be tough, but at the end of the day I like to reinforce to my kids the truth that I love them and that I am their Dad. That means that I am not just a teacher, but a role model and a man who will always do the best I can. For me, being a Dad isn’t just about teaching hard life lessons and preaching a certain kind of virtue. It is also about being vulnerable and exhibiting strength in that vulnerability.

After our talk, I ended with a “Good night, my son. I love you. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.” That had been my agreement with my son since he was born, and I’ve stated it so many times I could not hope to count the recitations. Despite our familiarity with that mantra, it never seems old to me. Each time I say it brings a certain amount of truth, newness and commitment into the space we share. I know soon, if he still allows me, the word boy will change to “man”. The one thing that won’t change is that he is my favorite man ever born.

The conversation used to go like this:

“I love you, bud. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.”

“And you are my favorite Daddy in the entire Universe.”

“I’m your only Daddy.”

“And I’m your only son.”

He has an advantage over his sisters. My middle child is currently my favorite 15-year old in the Universe, and my oldest is currently my favorite 25-year old. My son is simply my favorite boy, young man, male, whatever. He need share that favoritism with no other in his gender. He is the only one of his kind, the “man” of the house when I’m not around although his sisters have no need for a “man” of the house. They’re quite easily the strongest, most able and most independent people I know.

“Dad, give me a big hug.”

I certainly don’t say “no” to those opportunities. I assume, with some wisdom gained through the experiences I’ve had with his sisters, that those hug requests will diminish in time. This was the first year I wasn’t invited to walk with him on Halloween, that privilege being extended to his friends alone. My middle daughter didn’t even dress up this year, deciding to attend a high school haunted house with her friends instead. My oldest gave up doing those things that remind parents that they have children. Now, I have adults, and with them nothing but memories of smiles coming through princess makeup and GI Joe camouflage. I can still see each of my kids in my memory, their bags and plastic pumpkins in hand, running in dresses and scary costumes, enjoying that holiday as only kids can.

I used to be Daddy. Now, I am Dad. I used carry them on my shoulders, now I can barely lift them. They used to rely on me for so much, now I am barely tolerated (even when they rely on me). So I will never say “no” to a hug request, and I will put all my energy into that hug while it lasts.

Last night’s hug filled me with great joy, but also with great sadness. I could feel the fragility of my mortality looking over my shoulder. I could feel the moments fading. I could sense my end, although with that sense came an intense focus on the moment I was in with my favorite boy in the entire Universe.

I realized in that split second that I would not be around to see much of my son’s triumphs, or be there to help him in his tribulations. I would not be there to hug him when he needed one, or talk him through a question that entered his mind. I would not see so much of this young man’s life. I could feel a tear being born in my soul, but he would not see it. For now he would just be hugging his Dad, oblivious to the fragility of mortality that plagues us all. I could give him the gift of presence, knowing full well that one day he would fully understand the burden that mortality brings all of us who love someone deeply. The way I love my son, and my daughters, who will one day need me only to find I am gone.

That is where my “fuck” comes from. That fuck I give in this life, that fuck that says I want to be there for them, see their lives unfold, experience their joys and help shoulder their sadness. Mostly though, I know the sadness they will feel in my passing and I want to spare them from that burden. I know, however, that is a wish that will never be granted.

I woke up this morning understanding what this experience means. It means that I can’t be wasting time on the mundane, the meaningless drivel that often permeates our lives. Instead, I need to focus on the remarkable, and sharing that remarkable with those I share a love with. I need to leave a legacy of love, of words, of lessons and of memories because one day those things are all that will be left of me. I have spent a lot of my life focused on nonsense and I’ve wasted my energy on plenty of endeavors that have little meaning to those parts of me I will leave behind. I cannot build my memorial on fiction, I must build it in truth.

Perhaps that is what being a parent teaches us. Perhaps it need not be so much about “raising” our children but more about leaving them a legacy. Not a legacy of wealth and comfort, but a legacy that they can lean on when times get tough. Perhaps our role is not just to warm them, but teach them how to warm themselves and not leaving them to wander on their own, but to share with them a compass of morality, of character, and of love. That way, when they call for me and I can’t come they can still hear my voice, feel my hug, and know that I have never, ever, left them.

And I will always be their Dad.

Parenthood

August 11, 2011 / tomgrasso

“The torture of parenthood is in knowing that at some moment our children will start doing what we once believed was right.

The joy of parenthood is in knowing that at some moment our children will start doing what we found was right.”~Tom Grasso

The Joy of Family