Letting go

A shriek. Laughing, she screams, “Daddy don’t do that! That tickles! Stop it” while I hold her as tight as I can, my beard rubbing against her cheek. “Argh,” she screams. “I’m trapped! Let me go!” She doesn’t know I’m not trying to tickle her. I’m not trying to play around. I’m just scared one day I won’t be able to hold her anymore. She’ll be too old, or I’ll be too old. She’ll be too cool. I won’t be cool enough. She’ll be living somewhere else; not with me, not in my arms where I know she will always be safe.

 She giggles, “I gotta get outta here!”. I hug her closer. I smell her hair. I want to make sure I always recognize that smell. Years from now, I want to walk down the street, smell that sweet scent, and immediately travel back to the days when we played tag in the park, when we cuddled in bed. The days when she slept on my chest and nothing else mattered. Nothing else matters.

 “I’m free!” she screams as she wiggles out of my arms. “You can’t catch me!” But I can. But one day, I won’t. I won’t be able to. I won’t know how to. She’ll look at me in disgust when I say she can’t go to a party. She will scream in anger when I ask her to go change her clothes. She’ll cry in despair when I tell her no. But right now, right now, I can catch her. So I catch her. I close my eyes and hold her hand. I tell her a story of when she was born, the way I cried, the way mommy smiled. I tell her about the tornado that hit the hospital the day we took her home. The way the lights went out for 10 days and the heat was off, and the fridge was empty, and we were overwhelmed. And she looks at me like I’m the only person in the world. She listens to every word I say, softly repeats them “Mommy’s belly. So happy. Didn’t sleep. So scared”.

 And I’m the only man in the world for her. Right now. But one day she’ll meet someone else who will amaze her. She will meet somebody else who will inspire her. And I have to hope that person loves her at least half as much as I do. I have to pray that person thinks about her as much as I do. I have to wish that person enjoys her company as much as I do, is as impressed as I am with her, is as kind with her as I hope I am.

 “I’m trapped! I’m stuck!”she shrieks as I hug her tight again, wrap my arms around her little body, my legs around her legs. “Let me go!” And I tell her, “I hope you’re always surrounded by love as you are right now.”

 “I will be” she says, perhaps unknowingly. But I believe her. I have to believe her. I have to believe that we are teaching her just how good it is to be loved, to give love. I have to believe we are teaching her why this love is important and how much she deserves affection and respect and honesty. I have to believe she is listening when we talk with her about self esteem, resillience, independence, letting go. “I’m never going to let you go,” I say. “Oh yes you aaarrreeeeee”. And I will. One day I’ll have to. I’ll have to watch her walk away. I’ll have to lay in her bed, alone. I’ll have to sing her songs, alone. I’ll have to search for the smell of her hair in my memories, her giggles too, her laughter too. I open my mouth to say something, slowly, but she looks at me and says, knowingly, “I love you daddy”.