For the first time this calendar year, I skipped publishing this past weekend. Beyond some quick sketches in my notebook, I wrote nothing: no words, no edits, no posts.
Going into the weekend, I sensed that my daughter and I needed to recalibrate. Her nervous system appeared elevated, and my patience threshold noticeably lowered. These two states do not coexist harmoniously. I threw the weekend plan out the window and set no expectations for us except to be present with each other. And then I put her in charge. Within reason.
Saturday morning, when I picked her up from her mom’s, I handed her a clipboard and prompted her to write an agenda for the day: You pick, we can do whatever you want. I offered a day trip and a hike. A ferry ride to the city. A Broadway show. “Dad, I want to go to a show, but I have to plan for that.”
What the kid mapped out was time at our house. But first, we had to immediately return to Books Are Magic to see what happens next to Grace and Lola in The Love Report 2.1 My soon-to-be-nine Brooklynite would probably be swimming in the mix of big feelings regardless, but Dad having a new gf has ignited a burning desire to devour any book that spells out l-o-v-e. Gross, romance! is a frequent utterance these days, and yet, she, l can’t keep her eyes away like the rest of use rest of the weekend was a delightful mix of everything we both love about our apartment and time together. We both read. We both made art. We both did some at-home exercising. We watched a movie. We did it all together, well sometimes in separate rooms, but always in sync with the other. And when it was time to transition back to her mom and brother on Sunday, she opted to stay with me longer.
After my daughter was born, whenever asked for a big parental insight I would respond: every cliché is true. I agree with myself. Parenting is just one long unfolding of every story you’ve already heard. Except you are feeling it inside your own body, about a body you might love more than yourself.
My daughter is getting older and asserting her independence daily in ways that I simultaneously celebrate and lament. She still wants me to lay beside her as she falls asleep, but don’t I dare rub her back without asking. We’re both practicing putting more space between us while still staying connected. Sometimes we both cede territory with grace; sometimes one of us resists. When we both dig in, we both lose.
Tonight, biking back from school in stunningly beautiful weather, she asked to be let off a few streets from home so that she could walk the rest of the way. We negotiated on exactly where, and then I held my breath and let her jump off at the end of the reclaimed street that leads to our block. She strode off confidently, then doubled back to ditch the helmet.
My kid! So small in the fourth largest city in America!2 But rocking braids, shorts, AND THOSE BLACK COMBAT BOOTS!3 And she’s walking away from me, towards home.
I trailed at a distance on my wheels, close enough that I told myself I could speed up and shout if she stepped into the street while a car approached. This particular intersection has a tragic history. As she waited for the light to turn, I watched a woman stop in front of her, lean down, and ask a question. Then my kid pointed at me.
When we caught up with each other, my daughter was proud but also confused. Did I look sad? Why did the woman ask me if I was ok? I tried to explain, but my kid insists that she looks in the mirror and sees herself big. Meanwhile, the world, or at least me and that one lady on the street, are still hoping to give her more time before she has to grow up.
xx Kyle
P.S. It’s past bedtime here, but I’m off to iron my best white shirt for tomorrow’s Community Education Committee meeting in Lower Manhattan. Last month, the CEC in District 2 voted to review the rules for who gets to play sports in our NYC public schools. They claim they are “just asking questions” but what they are doing is running a playbook that has effectively rolled back rights for trans people across country. All politics is local, and NYers (myself included) can forget to get involved here at home. We have to interrupt the Moms for Liberty now organizing here. If you read this before Wednesday April 17th and are in NYC, pop on a white shirt and join me. Reply back to this and I’ll send you the address.
Except if your name is Jessi Hempel—Happy Birthday, friend! So much of the beauty in my life can be traced back to you. I always loved reading the shout-outs at the end of your newsletters, so here’s yours. 🎂
The Love Report: manga-inspired, middle-grade drama cooked up by French writers by an Italian artist. So global!
I checked, again, this fact over the weekend. If detached from the other four boroughs, I’d live in the fourth largest city. Here’s it said another way: Brooklyn is larger than Boston, Atlanta, Washington DC & Minneapolis combined.
The boots were purchased, in theory, for a Halloween costume. I’ve waited my whole life for a pair of these! She has worn them every day since.
The bedtime read i didn’t know i needed 🫶🏽
Gorgeous- thank you for sharing. Wise parenting yes, but also wise relating with anyone we love! 💝