"My job was only ever to walk behind him." — Sorin
I wasn't at the Toastmasters officer change ceremony a few weeks ago. I was attending a different kind of ceremony — one I wouldn't have missed for anything in the world.
Somewhere near Highway 7 and Highway 27, picture a huge room with five sections of chairs and a stage in the middle. I walk in, find a seat, and wait. The ceremony begins. One speaker, then another. Then they start calling the graduates, one by one, in alphabetical order. Five hundred kids standing silently in line, waiting for their name. My last name starts with T, so I know I have a while before it's my son's turn.
So I let my mind wander back.
The Day He Was Born
I remember the day my son was born like it was yesterday. That excitement, that happiness — when you see your kid for the first time, nothing else in life compares.
That night, a little windy, the tree out front of our house just snapped and fell — right onto the neighbor's car. No damage, thankfully. But I remember thinking: is this a sign my kid is going to be something special?
The early years are a blur of sleepless nights — you're tired, you're running on empty — but holding this small human in your hands makes every inconvenience disappear. Then the first steps. Then the worry that he wasn't talking yet — followed almost immediately by the realization that once he started, there was no stopping him.
The Moment He Let Go
I remember holding his hand crossing a parking lot, and one day realizing he'd let go a few steps before we reached the curb — not because I let him, but because he didn't think to ask anymore. That's parenting, I learned: a long series of moments where you're needed a little less.
I still wonder how much of who they become is really our choice. You don't get a second version of your kid to run the experiment differently and compare results. All you can do is believe you're choosing what's best for them.
For kindergarten, we made a choice that turned out to be the right one — by the time he reached Senior Kindergarten, he was already reading and writing on his own.
The night before his first day of school, I was reading him a bedtime story in Romanian. Partway through, he asked, "Daddy, can I read a book while you read me the story?" I said sure — thinking he'd lose interest in mine. He grabbed a book in English and started reading. A while later I asked if he was actually listening to me or just humoring me. "Yes," he said. So I tested him — asked him to tell me both stories: the one he'd read, and the one I'd read to him. He told me both. Perfectly. That was the moment I knew — yes, my kid is something else.
The Years That Rolled
The years rolled on through tennis, karate, robotics — the usual parade of childhood interests — and the never-ending stream of questions. I remember being at Epcot in Orlando, at a show where Crush the turtle from Finding Nemo was interacting with the audience. Lucas got picked to ask a question. He asked, "How old is the ocean?" Crush thought about it and said, "Duuuude, I'm old, but not that old." To this day, we still call each other "dude."
Then high school arrived, and with it, the teenage years — the differences in opinion, the pulling away. You miss the version of him that hugged you all the time, even while you're proud watching him find his own way. Then came the driver's license — relief that I no longer had to do school pickups, mixed with the new worry of him alone behind the wheel of something genuinely dangerous. Eventually, that worry gives way to trust.
That's the hardest part of parenting a teenager, I think — figuring out where the line is between being their friend, which is what you want to be, and being their parent, which is what they actually need. It's blurry. You do your best.
The Long Walk to the Stage
So there I am, watching him get closer to that stage, and I start thinking about all the steps that got him here. For a moment I think: I was the one behind him this whole way. And then I correct myself — no. He's the one who walked it, from his very first step to this one, on that stage. My job was only ever to walk behind him.
When they called his name, the tears came — the same joy, the same excitement I felt the day he was born.
And when they threw their caps in the air, I wouldn't have missed it for anything.
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Do You Have Kids? Tell Me Your Story.
Whether they're still small or already walking their own stage — I'd love to hear your version of this. Leave a comment below — I read every one and respond personally.