I Thought I Was Teaching My Daughter
But she was teaching me
“Daddy, how big is space?” my five-year-old daughter appears at my side and asks.
“I don’t know, honey, but I’ll bring a surprise home from work tomorrow, and we’ll find out together,” I say.
After work the next day, I drive home from the hobby store. Winter leaves flutter from branches in the backyard as I present my daughter with her first astronomy kit. We assemble the telescope and set it up on the back porch.
On a whim, I aim the lens toward the ceiling. “The moon is enormous tonight,” I say jokingly.
“Daddy, you’re looking at the porch light,” she says, playing along with my joke.
We laugh and, like Galileo on a clear night in Pisa, point our telescope up to the heavens.
Sky gazing has become a nightly ritual.
That weekend, my daughter appeared again with another question: “Daddy, could we take the training wheels off my bicycle?”
I take a deep breath.
I remember my father’s words when we purchased the bicycle: “Cherish every moment with your daughter. Once the training wheels come off, they never go back on again.”
No, not the training wheels. Please, not yet.
Like the transience of stars, before we know it, our little ones aren’t so little anymore. Nevertheless, I know what I have to do.
Awake that night, my mind churns like a wheel crank. I count the hours, knowing life will change in the morning.
As the sun rises, I say, “Honey, let’s pick out some clothes for riding. Today’s the day we take off the training wheels.”
Before I can blink, my daughter bolts out of her bedroom. She’s wearing a lime green tutu, a Christmas sweater, and a bicycle helmet with her birthday tiara taped to the top.
Usually, my wife would set this situation straight, but she wasn’t home, so I made the call. I look my daughter in the eye and say, “Looks great. Let’s go!”
The morning is crisp and smells of kindling wood. We walk her bicycle, free of training wheels, to the park. We find a starting place on the path that circles the playground. I support my daughter with both hands.
The bicycle’s wheels begin to whirl and tick. Wobbling, as she did with her first steps, she struggles to find balance. Her heart thumps along with mine. Her hair is soft and smells of strawberries. We are closer to one another than breathing.
She pedals forward. Weight shifts to the left, and I catch her. Weight shifts to the right, and I catch her again. She gains momentum. We lean into the wind. Faster now. Faster.
“Daddy, I’m riding!”
“Yes, Honey!”
I sprint beside her, stumbling out of control, as if running downhill. Then, she launches off into space. Her lime green tutu and Christmas sweater become a flash in the distance.
My eyes sting and moisten.
Can I handle this distance between us?
I tear after her, gasping for oxygen to keep up. My little girl is out of reach. She’s leaving the earth’s atmosphere and accelerating into orbit. If I slow her down, I’ll only be holding her back.
I remember our nights together in the backyard, exploring the cosmos with our telescope. I position myself in the park’s center and walk in a smaller circle as my daughter navigates the larger circle. We’re two planets orbiting in harmony.
I stay near enough to support her, yet far enough away to give her space.
As my daughter finds her balance on the bicycle, I find my balance between holding her close and giving her the freedom to fly. She slows and stops and scuttles over to me with a smile that would illuminate any night sky.
That day at the park, I thought I was teaching my daughter to ride her bicycle, but she was teaching me about love’s orbit.
For my entire life, I believed if I didn’t hold on tight, I’d lose love forever. My daughter taught me that part of love is letting go.
When you let go, you give your love the space to expand into its fullness. When you let go, you give your love the freedom to come back to you. When you let go, you discover what it truly means to be close.
We never know what love will look like.
It may appear as drawing near, pulling away, or meeting in the middle. It may appear as a lime green tutu and Christmas sweater on a winter morning.
But like riding a bicycle, love is a balance.
That evening, the hues of dusk welcome the night sky. Swaying by my side in our backyard hammock, my daughter asks again, “Daddy, how big is space?”
She nestles close, looking up.
We gaze in wonder at infinite points of light.
