Vol. 106 - Tiny Victories

On wins (which are actually kind of losses)

The other day I simply unlocked the doors to our family car.

That’s it. That’s all I did.

After that, I climbed in, started the car, put it in reverse, and slowly began to back out of our garage.

What I didn’t do was labor over seat belts or car seat straps, jamming my oversized body into the tiny crevasses of a backseat, a seat in which I haven’t fit in some thirty years. I didn’t look at the state of the back seat of our car in disgust. I didn’t curse or sweat or jam my fingers into long-forgotten sauces of indeterminate origin. I didn’t do anything except unlock the doors.

My kids did the rest.

They both climbed in—my son to his booster, my daughter to her carseat—and buckled themselves up. It was especially joyous given the fact that it was a typically swampy late-July day in central North Carolina.

For the past six-and-a-half years, I’ve been strapping my kids into some variety of protective seat. Carseat inserts, rear-facing buckets, front-facing carseats, boosters. You name it. If it’s designed to keep children safe in an automobile, I’ve sweated and cursed and soaked my fingers in some kind of sauce trying to strap my kids into it.

Some times were easier than others. Some times, they would get in and pull the shoulder straps on themselves, sitting still and patient until they heard the final “click” of the seatbelt. Other times (far more often, if we’re being honest), these moments were battles, our own tiny Waterloos, in which I almost always played the role of Napoleon. Defeated. Vanquished.

But the other day, for the first time, I didn’t have to do anything but unlock the doors.

And, as anyone who’s ever experienced the heat of a Southern summer can tell you, not having to reach over two bodies in a hot car is absolutely everything.

When your kids are babies, the victories are big; their first steps, their first words, their first toilet poop, the first time they read to you. These victories bring tears to your eyes.

And then, as I can only assume, the big victories (and the tears) come back; getting a driver’s license, getting into college, graduating from high school, leaving the house and starting a life of their own in the world. Marriage. Children.

But in the space in between, the space where Emily and I currently live, the victories become small. Tiny, even.

Those victories come in the form of little moments, when you witness your eldest being unbelievably kind to his little sister (especially when he thinks no one else is looking) or when they can pour their own bowl of cereal without somehow causing massive damage to your kitchen.

Those victories come in the backseats of cars, when you realize that your kids don’t need you to buckle them in anymore.

And for as glorious as those little victories are, they’re also indicative that there’s always going to be less and less that my kids need me for. Those things tick away like seconds on a clock until the only thing left they’ll need from me is time spent together.