There was no
reason why that moment should have resonated with me more than any of the
million other questions a kid asks of their parents. We were playing cards, just before my
daughter went to bed, when the 9:00 gun went off in Stanley Park. As she’s done so many times before, she
turned to me and asked, “Daddy, what was that?”
As I answered the question, I was struck by the utter confidence she had
that I would know what the noise had been; her Daddy would know, that look
said, and he would explain it to her.
In a way that
moment was no big deal, just another question; and yet at the same time, it was
a microcosm of what parents go through countless times, every single day. Our children look at us as the people who
solve problems, know things, and make things better. Sooner or later (and it seems to be getting
sooner and sooner these days) they will realize that their parents don’t know
everything, can’t do everything, and can’t fix everything. We try to hold on to that illusion for as
long as we can, knowing that inevitably it will fade. They will start to ask their friends, or
their teachers, or look it up on the phones that are becoming increasingly
ubiquitous, even in elementary schools (why an 11-year old needs to be texting
their friends at 10 AM on a Tuesday I’ll never understand, but that’s a
different post altogether).
What I’m realizing
I need to do, as time passes, is to eventually replace that blind faith kids
have in their parents with clear-eyed trust and confidence. I’m not a conditional parent, one that’s
there if it’s convenient, or when she’s making all the right decisions. I’ll be there no matter what. The questions will get more difficult, Daddy
will (sadly) become Dad, and my little girl will get bigger and bigger, there’s
nothing I can do about any of those things.
What I hope never changes, what I will make sure as best I can never
changes, is the trust in her voice and on her face when she asks me those
inevitable questions.
