As she was beginning to perfect her walking, she’d walk
around the house all day long, without purpose. Later, I’d learn that was
nothing novel for her, she was just following her own script, her individual
expression of life.
Practice makes one perfect—no one had to tell her that
adage, and of course she was too young to understand that anyway. She was
nevertheless born with that knowledge. The first day she’d learn a new word,
she’d keep on using that word in almost every sentence, whether it made sense
or not. Then I won’t hear her speaking it for some time and I’ll forget about
it.
One day suddenly, when I’d forgotten all about that word,
I’d hear her using it, and she’d do that in a perfect context. It was no
surprise therefore that she learned to speak well rather early, and had a great
appetite for listening to stories.
I wasn’t one of those fathers who’d read bed time stories
from the classic children’s books, I was too lazy for that. Naturally, it
wasn’t long before I exhausted all my stock stories, which were gifts from both
my parents and grandparents.
Being a lazy reader, I then resorted to make up my own
stories. I was not endowed with many talents in life, and certainly wasn’t
gifted with storytelling abilities, and therefore, my stories lacked coherence
and substance. I became aware of my shortcomings, as I didn’t find any other
child beside my daughter who’d pay attention to my stories.
There were times though, when I thought, not reading to my
daughter Alice in the Wonderland, or, Hansel and Gretel, perhaps I was
depriving her of an early education rich in imagination and mind broadening
inculcation.
Soon however, I discovered, she was telling me stories. True
that her stories were even more incoherent than mine, and they made even less
sense, but she was using words flawlessly from a rich stock. In her stories,
the blue elephants would have pink tails, and the tigers would make friends
with small birds rather than their own kinds, nonetheless she’d the ability to
make up endless sequences without being stuck in a groove.
In those days her world would revolve around me, and she
depended on me to take her outside our house to introduce her to the world so
that she could explore the unknown.
She would watch the flowers, butterflies, waves on the
oceans endlessly, and ask questions nonstop. Her barrage of questions would
sometimes create the impression that she was asking only for the sake of
asking, and that thought brought irritation in me, but I forced to restrain my
emotion.
The first shock I’d had was when she’d say, “But Daddy, you
said it didn’t rain in the deserts in the summer, so how could it rain in Dubai
in July?”
That stunned me, because several weeks ago I‘d told her it
didn't rain in the desert in summertime, and I didn't think she was paying
attention then. From then on I’d be careful while responding to her. No more
casual comments.
I can quite relate to it now, that it was not my daughter
who alone was growing up, I too was growing with her, and learning, and gaining
wisdom.
Teaching her how to ride a bike, my own handling of it was
getting better. Teaching her how to swim, I was overcoming my own clumsiness in
water. Helping her with additions, multiplications and divisions, I was
rediscovering the magic of numbers again. We indeed were growing up together.
Then, without even realizing I stopped growing own day. I
first discovered this when she effortlessly installed an App. so that I could
convert a YouTube song to mp3. She was still growing, but I wasn’t.
She was growing, if not outside, surely inside, since she was still asking me questions. But the nature of her questions was changing, and it was no longer easy for me to answer them.
One day she asked me, “Dad, you told me lies never win, but
I can see all around me people who lie are the ones who move up all the time.
What am I supposed to do?”
The question had shaken my own core conception and belief
system, and I spent a long time dwelling on it, but still have not found the
right answer.
Then another day she asked, “If I’m supposed to forgive
someone seventy time seven then why does our country sends drones to far-away
countries and kill children and women who even don’t know us?”
I’m still searching for an answer to this question.
I was beginning to dread her questions. I was secretly
hoping she would stop asking me questions.
And she surely did stop asking me questions, although I didn’t realize it first when she did that.
One day, watching TV together, as she came over to share the Thanksgiving week-end, she smiled at a politicians comment, “The proposed cut in the program is only to strengthen it…” She didn’t ask me any question, just smiled at me; that day I realized my daughter had truly grown up.
That day I also realized I was seeing her less and less for
the last few years.
Once I was the center point of her life and she lived in my
world, now I lie in the periphery of the world she has created for herself.
Once she strove for my continual attention, now other things have taken over
her priority, and I seldom appear in her focus. Our worlds are still
connected, but only remotely.
When the transition occurred I even didn’t notice it, since
it happened gradually, and we don’t perceive gradual changes.
I’d also failed to notice that when I was with her it was
always she who was driving the car. I’d also failed to notice, it was I who was
asking her questions when faced with any decision making.
Oh, how has it come full circle!
But that’s the story of life, isn’t that? It’s time to
accept, and move on. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
