Space to Be Who They Are Becoming

Missing What They Once Needed

Yesterday, we had a bit of time on our hands and momma was busy with other things, so Little Bean and I decided to go hang out at Barnes and Noble - you know, maybe a pink drink and a cheese pretzel, browse the Baby Sitters Club graphic novel section, that sort of thing.

Pre-pandemic, one of our favorite weekly routines was that I’d pick her up from pre-school and we’d head over to B&N for a pizza pretzel before swim class. Well, the pizza pretzel is gone now, and her chocolate milk is replaced with a pink drink, but you get the idea.

But that’s not all that’s replaced. Being a pre-teen (tween?), it turns out, is filled with all sorts of compromises.

She shows up a half hour before we’re supposed to leave with friend #1 in tow. “Daddy, can she come with us!?”

I sigh. “As long as I get a text from her mom or dad, then yes.” The text arrives two minutes later.

And as I’m getting ready to stuff the two girls into the car, friend #2 show up.

“Daddy!” Little Bean looks at me smiling. Same drill. Same yes. So off we go, three girls and me, to get Pocky’s and pink drinks and cupcakes.

And as we drive down to the bookstore, the girls gibbering and gabbing happily, I understand that I’m not reinventing the parenting business here, that it’s always been like this. They get older. They have friends. I’m their driver and facilitator and protector and bank.

I set them up with their snacks, they find a cozy table in the cafe and I let them be. I run up and grab my own coffee and tell them, “I’ll be over by the magazines, scream if you need anything.” And I give them space. Reluctantly.

Space to be with each other. Space to carve out their own relationships with their own social strata. Space to be girls hanging out with each other.

But then, a notice that a thing happens. Every so often, one or the other of them will show up at my side.

“Mr. Dan, do you have a dollar?"

“Mr. Dan, do you know what time it is?

And then finally, Little Bean, “Daddy, do you want a bite of my cheese pretzel.”

I very much do.

We work hard to keep them safe and happy. We work hard to make them their own humans. And then, when we succeed, we miss what they once needed.

But as long as my daughter continues to share her cheese pretzels with me, I’ll be a satisfied dad.