Don’t Let Go

“Courage is what we give to each other.”

That is the conclusion of a book called, plainly, Courage by Bernard Waber, which also makes stops on mountains and diving boards and spelling bees and burning buildings. Still, the dependency of courage is what rang true to me when I first read it, and continues to resonate loudly, even urgently, now that my youngest is no longer always around to accompany me - to meetings, appointments and social engagements where I am expected to enjoy myself completely, adultly, and if not, I’ve got nobody to blame but myself.

Looking back, I think that I have occasionally misrepresented our former arrangement as a hardship, but this was self serving: in squabbles with my wife over “personal” time, then also in sympathy, or quiet competition, with other parents. Who’s the baddest Daddy? Me, because I took my six-week-old to vote, my one-year-old to the accountant, my three-year-old to an MRI. Okay, you because you took your triplets to the office. This is all vanity, of course, and it is regrettable, we hope, like bragging about hangovers and whatever else it was we mistook for accomplishments back in college.

But the truth is I actually miss that constant accompaniment. And, yes, it was often distracting, but it was also the very best reason to be brave, to be dignified, sometimes righteous, and frequently, blatantly juvenile. To care, or not to care, and call it a matter of imperatives - my children - that was the simple life.

Eventually they found better things to do than tag along beside me and puff up my confidence – things like school and friends and soccer. Regardless, I have these days sometimes scheduled appointments in the afternoons, whether I needed to or not, and I hope the rewards aren’t all mine. Life experience? Isn’t that what they call it? A couple of months ago, with my six-year-old in attendance, an orthopedist delivered a cortisone injection into the bottom of my foot.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he sighed, that 20 gauge needle aiming briefly into space. “This is really going to hurt.”

Then afterwards, to my six-year-old: “Your dad was pretty brave, right?” Wrong. But it was probably helpful, and certainly silencing, to be able to share that little horror - then and for the rest of our lives – with a member of my family. The story’s the thing. My relationships with my children can seem so epic sometimes that I am often simply grateful to have these – or any – little seconds to slow things down.

First steps. First words. First symphonies. We are generally in such a hurry to develop our children’s competence that I wonder if we don’t take the privilege of their – and our - dependence for granted. In Don’t Let Go by Jeanne Lewis, a girl calls her father (apparently divorced) to help her learn to ride a bike. At first she is worried about what will happen when he releases his grip, though as she gets comfortable, a magical world of opportunities and adventure appears on the path in front of her, and she hardly looks back.

Man, it’s almost too much for me to read this kind of book anymore. I want my son to keep jumping naked on the bed. I want him to need me in the bathroom sometimes, even though he should probably be able to manage these things by himself, and tie his shoes, and pour his own juice, and read his own books. I see kids his age dashing across streets, but I am grateful he still holds my hand – in crosswalks, on sidewalks and windy walks and every walk. And I worry, and I hope that when he stops I will not simply blow away.