Here is a very sentimental piece that raises questions about the time we spend with our children. As parents we often think that we have years with our children but those years race by and before we know it our daughters and sons have grown up and walked away. I think and research shows, that it is very important to make time everyday for our children and that we should make the most of every minute that we have them. It is a win / win situation that we all gain from in the long run.
Have a lovely weekend,
Daddy's Letter To His Little Girl (About How Fast She's Walking Away)
By Kelly M. Flanagan
Dear Little One,
We have this unspoken ritual, you and I.
When we pull up to the curb at school, and you disembark for another day in
kindergarten, we both know I'm going to idle there and keep an eye on you,
until you disappear around the corner of the building. Some days, you walk
briskly, never looking back.
Other days, you meander, turning and waving goodbye repeatedly.
Then, last week, when we pulled up to the curb, I said, "Sweetie, we're
here really early today; you'll have plenty of time to play," and you said
something that squeezed my heart a little too hard:
"We have plenty of time for you to watch me walk away, Daddy."
Oh, Sweetie, if you only knew: that's what I have
done, am doing,
and will be
doing for your entire life... watching you walk away...
I remember a summer morning at a playground, when, for the first time, you ran
toward the slide and didn't look back. I remember wishing you needed me, and
sadly-gladly knowing it was good you didn't.
I remember that first kindergarten morning, you disappearing into the big,
cavernous school, teeming with strange kids. I remember losing sight of you in
the hallway of crowded children and knowing it was the first of many times I'd
lose sight of you in this crowded world.
I remember the first time you asked me to drop you off at the curb. I remember
the purpose with which you walked toward the school, ponytail bobbing, backpack
bouncing, not looking back. Five years old, walking boldly around the corner,
as if twenty-five
was just around that corner, too.
Oh, Sweetie, I know I'm watching you walk away.
I just don't feel like there is plenty of time
A month ago you needed me in the pool with you. Today, I watched you swim from
end to end with no help at all. You are walking away, and you are swimming away, too.
Three months ago you needed me to read you bedtime books, but something clicked
for you recently, and now you're reading Pinkalicious
as if you wrote it yourself. You're walking away, and you're reading away, too.
A year ago, you depended upon me for lunches. Now, after school, you climb
right up on the counter and make a sandwich out of a holy mess of PB&J.
You're walking away, and you're climbing and creating
Before long, that first date will knock on our front door.
And I'll watch you walk away.
I'll watch you grow up and look more and more like your mother -- you have her
chin and lips and cheeks and that same lone-spiraling curl which kisses the
corner of your right eye on its way down. But unlike your mother, who seems
like she isn't going anywhere, I'll watch you walk away.
First, down graduation aisles.
Then, probably, a wedding aisle.
You'll turn the corner into jobs and paychecks and, if your current passions
are any prediction of your future decisions, you will turn the corner into
motherhood and nurturing and caring for children of your own. I'll watch you
walk away into your own season of parenthood, into your own season of letting
Then, I pray, one day as you're idling at the curb and your little one walks
away -- turning one more corner into his or her own life -- you'll think of me.
I hope you'll pick up your phone and give me a call. I hope you'll walk back
home, so we can talk.
About how there is not even close
to plenty of time for watching the walking.
About how we get distracted and forget to watch.
About how we wish it away and choose not to watch.
About how we can't create more
time, but we can cultivate the quality
of our time.
About how we can watch more carefully.
Dear Little One, I pray one day you'll walk back home, so I can let you know: I
watched you walk away as closely as I knew how.
Yours then, now, and forever,