Skateboarding with Skylar

"What time is it, Dad," Skylar asks me as we hang out in the living room, watching SpongeBob after breakfast. She has milk dried on her chin and a look of abject boredom on her impish face. I tell her its 10:30 as I use a napkin to wipe away the milk. She responds with an over-exaggerated sigh, shoulders slumping in an early defeat. "Tom's late again," she whines. I look at her, dressed for success in her too-long blue jeans, Z-strap sneakers, and brand new t-shirt bearing images of skateboards and monstrous faces, and realize that her impatience is likely to ruin her entire day unless I do something about it.

So I get up, take her by the hand, and walk her to the front door where her Tony Hawk skateboard sits bearing the weight of her pads and helmet. She stops at the top of the steps, her hand falling limply from my grasp and her attitude starting to worsen. I take a seat on the bottom step and look up at her, lifting the mesh bag holding her pads and helmet from its resting place on her board. "Let's get ready for Tom, then," I say over my shoulder. She's still frowning as she walks slowly, almost dragging her feet down the four or five steps to the floor of the split foyer, her hand dragging along the curving rail that parallels the circular staircase. I help her into her knee pads first, the operation of the black plastic and Velcro contraptions well within her nine-year-old capabilities, but since she still likes to have daddy help her with these things, I continue to make myself useful until she doesn't want my help anymore. I know her independence is just around the corner.

After the knee pads come the elbows, then her helmet, and finally, the wrist guards. Once all the protective gear is on, I suggest we go down to the garage for her to practice her tic-tacks on the level smooth surface of the concrete floor. She readily agrees, her smile spreading from cheek to cheek as we walk the rest of the way downstairs and make our way into the garage.

"Are you going to move your car?" she asks me once she's dropped her board to the floor. I follow her gaze from one side of the garage to the other and briefly envision her skateboard smashing out a window in my car, but realize the likelihood of such a thing is miniscule…about as likely as being struck by lightning. Twice. I tell her to go ahead. "All you're doing is practicing tic-tacks so you can show Tom how much progress you've made." I step down into the garage and maneuver a cardboard box and recycling bin between her and my car just in case the board goes rolling toward it, to save myself the trouble of climbing underneath to fetch her board. "Show me what you can do!"

She steps onto the board and pushes herself along at slow, almost snail speed. I encourage her to practice and she does so, lifting the front end of her board first right, then left, beating out a staccato, off-beat rhythm as the wheels come back down time and again. It takes her several runs before she's satisfied, and she finally makes a run from one end of the garage to the other, bouncing side-to-side most of the way. She's smiling and talking up a storm now, her "bad day" made better because daddy was there to fix it for her.

Is there a better feeling than this?