“Dad, can we go have a catch?”
It stopped me in my tracks. Not because it was the first time he had asked me to go outside and throw the ball. But because I noticed something was missing.
I was now “Dad,” not “Daddy.” He had dropped the y. That hit me.
I’m not even sure when it happened. There wasn’t an announcement or family meeting. He didn’t ask permission. One day, somewhere between third grade, baseball practices and becoming just a little more independent, “Daddy” quietly became “Dad.”
The funny thing is, nothing else has really changed. He still wants me to throw batting practice in the backyard. He still sometimes needs me to reach things on the top shelf. He still asks me questions Google could answer in three seconds because he’d rather hear the answer from me.
Some milestones come and go before you realize they’ve happened. At least for me. This one didn’t. I don’t always notice the changes because they’re so gradual. I also don’t regularly get emotional about them. But this was different.
One day he was asking me to carry him upstairs because he was too tired. Now he’d race me to the top because I can’t pick him up without risking a hernia. One day he needed me to tie his shoes. Now I remind him he’s old enough to do it himself.
And one day he was calling me “Daddy.” On that day, he didn’t.
The strange part is we spend so much of their childhood hoping they’ll become more independent. I thought it would make things easier. I couldn’t wait for the boys to sleep through the night. I celebrated the switch from the car seat to booster. Yet along the way, he stopped needing me for every little thing. Quietly. Almost without me noticing.
And then one missing letter reminded me we’re getting exactly what we wished for.
That’s the tradeoff nobody tells you about. Every milestone means saying goodbye to an old version of your child. The kid who wanted to hold your hand. The kid who needed help with every button and zipper. The kid who called you “Daddy.”
Standing there with a baseball glove in my hand, I found myself wondering something else. When did I stop calling my own father “Daddy?”
I spend so much time trying to become a better dad I rarely think about when I stopped being someone’s little boy. I don’t remember the transition. There wasn’t a final “Daddy” followed by the first “Dad.” It slipped away as so many childhood moments do.
One day Brandon won’t remember making the switch either.
Maybe that’s because growing up isn’t one big moment. It’s thousands of tiny ones. A missing tooth. A bike without training wheels. One less hand to hold crossing the street. One little letter that quietly disappears.
Of course we could have a catch. I was just glad he asked. Because even though he dropped the y, he still wanted to spend time to have that catch with me.
Maybe that’s what really matters. Someday there will probably come a time when he doesn’t ask anymore. Secretly, I hope it never comes. But that day wasn’t going to be today.
