Bittersweet 16

Case,

16.

That's the number of steps you scaled on the beginning of our walk this morning.

You've made your way up those steps before, but not like this. Today, there was no wasted motion. No hesitation. For the first time, you made your way without using the rail or your father for support. Not once did you stop, look back and reach out your hand.

I was proud, and I was sad. Proud because it was a moment that reminded me you're growing up so fast, becoming an independent little man and gaining confidence every step of the way. Sad because it was a moment that reminded me you're growing up so fast, becoming an independent little man and gaining confidence every step of the way.

It was just a few weeks ago that we went for a walk and on the first set of steps down to the backyard, you reached out to me. It reminded me how important it is that I be there for you, which, as I've mentioned before, I consider to be my fundamental duty as a father. To be there. To guide. To support. To offer a helping hand — in its myriad forms — whenever you reach, whether I'm right beside you on the steps or half a world but just a call (or text or personal message or Skype; you get the idea) away.

That last part is what hit me today. As you navigated any number of steps, ambled across across wide-open spaces of concrete and grass, wobbled down the occasional hill and eventually ended up on the playground with your "choo-choos," I was reminded of another duty — the duty to let you grow up.

When another human, especially one that is still pure of heart and knows only that the world is a wondrous but scary place puts his trust in you, it's a powerful feeling. In my experience, the greatest of my life. So while I smiled throughout our journey today, it was a little bittersweet to watch you and know that one day, the proverbial steps you climb will take you to heights I tend not to think about in the general course of a hectic day.

Today, I no longer had to offer a literal helping hand as you walked up 16 steps. Soon, the number of figurative helping hands I can offer you will start to decrease. One day, you won't need me to follow so closely. Then you won't need me to follow at all. Eventually, you will be more independent and confident than I could have imagined as I held all 6 pounds of you to my chest a little more than two years ago in the delivery room.

With each new step, there will be more pride and less sadness. There will be no limit to the former, and the latter will never completely go away. I will do my best to let you grow up, to give you the freedom to reach new heights without looking back. But if or when you need it, I will always be within reach.

Love,
Dad