Smoke-filled evenings aside, these past few weeks have provided me with a handful of precious moments that let me know we’re entering a new age of parenthood.

Not that spending time with my children is anything new, but as they have gotten older the way we spend that time has evolved.  From being able to fit snuggly against my chest as I read them the first stories they’d ever hear, to cuddling up on the couch watching some of those stories come to life on the screen, and now to a time when the stories we share are those of our daily lives and experiences.  No longer do they fall asleep on my chest before the sun goes down, and instead now we find ourselves walking through dusk and nestling on the patio couch under the stars.  Summer evenings were made for breathing in, and that I get to now share them with my daughters feels like a transition.

My oldest staying awake later than me is by no means anything new – she’s a borderline night owl where I am undeniably at my best before the rest of the world wakes up.  But where she used to spend that time in her room reading or crafting, she now spends it more and more beside me on the couch, or hand in hand on our late evening walks.  I know and understand that she is in part playing me by pulling the heart strings just so she can stay up later, but I also know that and understand that that won’t always be the case – that she will one day not long from now be clamouring to get away; and so I happily and selfishly indulge her.

How we spend that time has varied.  We might read, we might cook, we might walk or we might watch.  It’s the last two in that list that bring me most joy – the walk we’ll get to in a moment.

While I was never a fan of school, I have always loved learning. I enjoy discovering new things, and so about a month ago I decided that I’d sign up for Master Class.  Learning from an expert-level celebrity certainly won’t certify me in anything, but drawing inspiration from someone who has honed their craft the way, say, Thomas Keller has done, couldn’t possibly put me at a disadvantage.  With a wide range of classes to take, I’ve dabbled already in the tools that will help me understand running my own business, heighten my project management knowledge and , of course, upgrade my skillset in the kitchen.  And when I got to the part in my class where Aaron Franklin was going to run a clinic on how to smoke a brisket, that’s when my daughter showed her interest.

Almost every night since, after her sister goes to bed, she comes out to the backyard with me, where we light our citronella torches and cozy up on the couch to learn.  From trimming, to seasoning, to prepping the fire, every second of the process captured her attention, and has inspired her to want to take on the time consuming, monumental task of tackling the king of all barbecue this summer.  And who am I to deny that?!

Since wrapping that delicious lesson, she has shown keen interest in others, and in a world of you tube and other predatory apps, games, and malicious content, her spending time with me in front of a screen in this way is something I simply cannot argue. Of course, screen time isn’t the only time we’ll find together – we climb every Monday, we adventure every Saturday, and we stroll every weekday.

Our evening walks are nothing new and I’ve spoken on them before; we’ve always enjoyed meandering the downtown streets after the crowds have left and the stores have shuttered.  It has historically been the time I get to hear about her day in more detail than I would have at any other time.  It’s just her and I and she has my undivided attention to share whatever and however she feels.

This past week, though—a week that has admittedly been a difficult one for me—something changed.

She asked if we could go for a walk so that I could tell her how I was feeling. So that I didn’t have to keep it all bottled up. So that I would remember I have people who love me and want to support me.

Those were her words, not mine.

So we walked together.

I talked openly.

She listened intently.

And then she reached for my hand, held it tightly in hers, looked up at me and said, “I love you, Dad. Lots of people love you. Sometimes the people who love you get upset with you; maybe they don’t understand you or the situation for a moment.  Maybe in that moment they don’t even like you…but that doesn’t make their love go away.”

She went on to share her thoughts on doing hard things and how we usually grow because of them. Not necessarily because they make us happy, or even because they were the right things to do, but because they teach us something. Sometimes we learn how to carry those moments a little more easily the next time they come around. Sometimes we learn that we never want to face them again, and we make changes in our lives so that we don’t have to.

As much as I’d love to take credit for it, I honestly don’t know when my ten-year-old daughter became so thoughtful, so compassionate, and so incredibly wise.

That’s the funny the thing about parenthood. We spend years believing we’re the ones doing the teaching, only to wake up or go for a walk one evening and realize the roles have quietly begun to blur. Somewhere along the way, the little girl whose stories I once read at bedtime became someone capable of helping me write the next chapter of my own.

I’m realizing more every day that growing up isn’t something reserved for children. As parents, we spend years believing we’re the ones doing the teaching. Maybe that’s what changes most—not how much our kids need us, but how we slowly begin needing them in ways we never saw coming.