10 Feet at a Time

I remember the first time my daughter Grace asked me if she could walk around the block by herself. It was a warm summer evening, we live in a quiet neighborhood that I describe as being simultaneously the best parts of the city and the suburbs. I have walked the dog all over this neighborhood, and aside from the occasional jagoff who feels the need to gun the engine between stop signs that are probably no more than three blocks apart, it’s incredibly safe. If she stayed on the sidewalk, literally nothing bad was likely to happen to her. I knew this rationally.

Parents are not rational. The idea of Grace walking around one measly block scared the bejeezus out of me for reasons I cannot explain, nor fully understand. I agreed anyway, but as she walked, I started a timer on my phone and watched her casually stroll the corner, turn left, and head down the next street. I crept into the street to keep a view of her as long as I could, and then once she was out of sight, I ran down to the other end of the block, so I could see her when she emerged to make the third turn.

I stared at my phone watching the seconds agonizingly tick by. I listened intently for any sounds of distress – screeching brakes, angry dog barks, shouting, anything that might trigger me to sprint to the other block to rescue her – but none ever emerged. Of course none did. How long does it take to walk one block? I should have done a test run of this myself, so I had a control study. What the fuck am I talking about? Am I insane? Yes you are. Shut up, brain!

Impatiently I stood at the end of our block. With seconds that seemed to increase in duration between them the same way they do on a Stairmaster, she finally ambled into my field of vision and I felt a wave of relief wash over me as she waved and chirped out a friendly and carefree “Hey!” I played it cool and asked, “How was your walk?” Good!

Total time gone: Less than 6 minutes. My heart rate during those 6 minutes: Probably like 150 bpm. Like I said, parents are not rational.

Our block became known as Block #1. Across the street to the west is Block #2. Across the street to the north is Block #3. A block to the south touches a much busier street, so that one remained off-limits. She started exploring these blocks, took her younger sister Sloane with her, and never once has there been an incident with this. Again, of course there hasn’t.

Since then, my kids have now walked the dog miles and miles on their own. They’ve biked and scootered to friends’ houses. They go to the park by themselves and tell us approximately when they plan to come back. They’re smart kids, ones who have earned our trust and who deserve more and more freedom as they get older. That’s the nature of parenting. You prepare your kids to be more and more autonomous. Once upon a time we had a baby gate up to prevent them from tumbling down the stairs. They once weren’t allowed to cross the street at all without us. Someday soon they’ll get in a car and drive away without either Kristin or me in it.

I had a thought as I watched them walk away from me one evening that I haven’t been able to shake and that breaks my heart every time I think it.

As time marches on, I’m basically saying goodbye to my kids 10 feet at a time.

***

In the movie Creed II, Adonis is considering fighting Viktor Drago, the son of Ivan Drago, a steroid-riddled Soviet monster who killed Adonis’s dad in Rocky IV, and caused brain damage in Rocky when they fought on Christmas Day where Rocky ended The Cold War in his victory. Rocky is imploring Adonis not to take the fight because “that guy broke things in me that can never be fixed.”

Sometime during the throes of quarantine, I had a complete breakdown. I had set up an obstacle course in our basement (or something, I can’t remember) for my girls, aged 3 and 5 at the time, which amused them for like 5 minutes and then they were bored again. Kristin worked for a hospital, and she was already back in the office and working hellish hours, 80% of my business had fled, and I was home with these girls pretty much all day, every day. I was running out of ideas how to keep them entertained, and after they got bored immediately of my efforts one time too many, I was on my knees hitting a pillow in a chair and bawling my eyes out.

My kids had no idea what was wrong with their dad, but as I wept face down in that chair, I felt them come over to me, put a blanket on me, turn off the lights, and go upstairs. It was so sweet and touched my heart, but I was also overcome with guilt and shame because I felt like I was failing them. Why couldn’t I be stronger? Why was this breaking me? How could I let these sweet, innocent girls down? I cried harder. Eventually, I put myself back together, went upstairs, thanked them for caring for me, and went back to figuring out how I was going to get through another day of the same grinding monotony that was the stock in trade of COVID lockdowns.

The world gradually returned to normal – roughly 10 feet at a time – but I was different. For a long time I felt like my entire ceiling for joy had lowered, particularly as a parent. I didn’t have the capacity for excitement that I used to. Everything felt muted, hazy, or like how flavors no longer pop after you badly burn your tongue.

My greatest fear was that the horrors of living through COVID, its isolation and loneliness, its drudgery and melancholy sameness, had, like Rocky after fighting Ivan Drago, broken something inside of me that could never be fixed. Particularly when it came to parenting. I didn't love parenting the way I used to.

***

The day we learned we were off the waitlist to join our pool last year, we paid our dues immediately, packed up our gear and went for a swim as soon as it opened. Kristin and I grew up in the pool, and we finally had a club of our very own. I think about that day a lot because it’s the day I felt like I found a lost puzzle piece to my life that I didn’t know had been missing. We went to our pool a lot that summer hitting both opening day, closing day, July 4^th, and more days than I can even count.

I love summer. I call this season “lawless anarchy” because it is. Otter Pops every day? Sure! What are we doing for dinner? I dunno, pizza? And let’s invite friends over! Why the hell not?! Time to sit on the back porch, crack some peanuts, and listen to Taylor Swift, The Frickashinas and Cheap Trick. What time is bedtime? Uhhh, whenever we’re done watching The Sandlot, I guess… or maybe some episodes of Bluey too! Does it matter? What are we doing tomorrow? Going to the pool? Alright then!

Compared to the rigors of the scheduled days of the school year, the cold and darkness of the winter, and the basic human need for structure, summer is wonderfully chaotic as days bleed into each other, cocktails with friends are the norm, and joy and laughter are in wild abundance.

This summer was different because, compared to years previous, we didn’t enroll them in a single camp. They were home with me all summer, and even though that proposition made me nervous, it’s a decision I have not regretted even once. Sure, sometimes the seemingly endless stream of inane questions like Dad, can I have a bag of chips? Can you call so-and-so’s mom to see if I can have a playdate? What are you working on; what’s that mean; who is this person? and the constant hum of too-loud tween sitcoms like Liv & Maddie, Dog with a Blog, and Bella and the Bulldogs did grate on me from time-to-time.

But by spending the overwhelming majority of my time with my kids as they’re 9 and 10 years old, I have proven myself wrong. COVID did not permanently lower my ceiling for joy. It did not break things in me that couldn’t be fixed. In tossing the football in the front yard just after sunset, in splashing in the pool, in cracking those peanuts together, in driving around with the windows down and the sunroof open, I have recaptured the joy I feared I lost.

I feel closer to my kids now than I have since before the pandemic. They say you only get so many summers with your kids, and we have made the last two really count. This one isn’t even fully over – that doesn’t happen until Labor Day when the pool officially closes – and I’m already excited for the next one.

I’m also grateful when parents tell me how much they like when my kids come over to their house -- every parent loves that. But it’s given me a new spin on what I think a good parent should do. Our general maxim here is “Work hard and be nice to people.” We still abide by that. But almost equally as important is that I’m trying to make my kids a good hang.

Being a good hang is underrated as a goal because of what it implies. If you’re a good hang, it means you’re socially adaptable. You learn how to detect vibe, how to adapt to different personalities, intuit when to be the center of attention and when to cede the stage to others, and mostly just be someone that’s fun to be around. We need more people like this in the world, and it feels like they’re in short supply from a cultural standpoint writ large.

The great irony of parenting is that you’re working to make your kids people who are cool to be with in order for them to thrive when they leave you. Because they will. Because that’s the goal. You want them to be autonomous, to ultimately not need you, to self-actualize into the best and most fulfilling versions of themselves. And if you’re successful, that’s exactly what they’ll do.

And all you can do is watch them walk away from you and be satisfied knowing you did your best to help them face the world on their own. Even as they get 10 more feet away from you, forever, all the time.

***

Denver Public Schools, in its infinite wisdom, voted to close my girls’ elementary school at the conclusion of the last school year. We beat back an attempt at this two years prior, but the schoolboard and the jackals on the DPS staff learned from their missteps and brought the hammer down on us successfully last year. We fought anyway because we love our school, and we didn’t believe their bullshit justifications for closing it. It didn’t matter. The votes were counted before the dog and pony show of “public involvement,” and we later realized nothing we could have done would have changed the outcome. This would have been a huge waste of time on its own, except that it fortified a community into one tight-knit, full of love, and deeply protective of each other. Of course, the school closed, so a bunch of this community has been scattered to the wind of different schools. I still think DPS is largely a bunch of fuckers.

But whereas our old school was within walking distance, this one is not. Whereas our last school was small and intimate, this one is much bigger. Whereas I probably knew the first and last name of 75% of the parents at the last school, this one is a sea of new, albeit friendly, faces. The girls approached the day with excitement and a bit of nerves.

I was a fucking mess.

If any of you reading this saw me this morning, and you thought I was a bit aloof, sorry about that. I was barely holding it together behind my sunglasses. If I said more than about 5 words, my voice would have cracked, and the tears would start streaming down my face. And I feared once I opened the floodgates, I’d never get it back together. I didn’t want to screw up my girls like that.

We successfully made it back to the car where that’s exactly what happened. The dam broke, tears streamed down my face, and they didn’t stop until well after I sat at my desk and blankly checked my emails until I regained my composure.

But I thought about watching my girls walk down my street, turn left, and gradually disappear from view for the first time walking around their own home block. This morning, they each gave me a big hug, I wished them a good first day at school, they turned and walked into their respective classrooms, and a new chapter has started for them. More chapters will follow. 10 feet becomes 100 feet. 100 feet becomes 1,000 feet. 1,000 feet becomes a mile. A mile becomes 10. 10 miles turns into college. College turns into adulthood. And today becomes one of thousands of memories I hope I retain as the ceaseless march of time inexorably continues.

I’ve said before the best way to enjoy the present is to treat it like it’s the past. You need to project yourself into the future and treat your current moment almost nostalgically. I know it sounds silly being nostalgic for the present, but if you can anchor a memory like this, it becomes all the more potent.

I love my girls. I love shepherding them through their lives. I love watching them grow into newer and newer versions of themselves. I love that I get to spend whole summers with them. And I hope they love this too.

Because I’ll be watching them every time they venture a little further away from me and wish I could continue to keep them close. But I can't. I can only watch them go 10 more feet at a time.