Every time I pull out the leash for my dog, Bailey, he practically dances with excitement. His little tail wags furiously, and he jumps around, eager for the adventure that awaits—fresh air, new smells, puddles to splash in, and the thrill of exploration.
My kids used to greet me with the same enthusiasm when they were younger. With their chubby hands reaching out from their cribs, their toothless grins were like sunshine. Each morning felt like a new world of discovery, filled with milestones from tasting food to mastering the art of walking. Each achievement marked a tiny step away from me.
As Bailey and I set off on our walk, the neighborhood is as familiar to me as my favorite book, but to him, it’s a treasure trove of new experiences every day. He sniffs at trees, leaves little “hellos” for his furry friends, and eagerly wanders the sidewalk, always on the lookout for the next exciting thing—maybe a squirrel or a particularly interesting patch of grass. I often have to gently remind him to stay on our path, as he’s ready to dash off at any moment.
My toddlers were just as curious. They’d explore every nook and cranny, seeking out playmates and engaging in their little adventures. I often found myself running behind them, whether in the park or the grocery store. Those moments were fleeting—one day they no longer needed diapers, and just like that, they took another step away from me.
When we walk, Bailey sometimes stops dead in his tracks, pulling on the leash as if to say, “Wait! I want to sniff that!” He’s curious but occasionally overwhelmed by other dogs barking or strange noises. In those moments, he inches closer to me, seeking comfort but still wanting to discover the source of the commotion. It’s a delicate dance of moving forward and pulling back.
My preteens are in a similar phase, swinging between joy and melancholy in a heartbeat. They’re maturing, grappling with the complexities of adolescence, yet still clinging to their childhood comforts. I find myself longing for the simplicity of their younger days while also being captivated by the people they’re becoming. Each day they step a little further into their independence, tugging at the ties that bind us.
As we near home, Bailey instinctively knows the route, and I let him off the leash about half a block away. He happily trots ahead, eager to reach his sanctuary. It’s a comforting thought—like my high schoolers who are always dashing in and out, sometimes too busy to stop, but still returning home when they need a little support or a familiar hug. They know the door is always open, and I’m just a few steps away.
And of course, Bailey will be there to greet them too.
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