On Wednesday I fixed my daughter's bicycle. It wasn't really broken, as such, but her relentless growth had left seat and handlebars too low and they needed adjusting. So I went out and purchased some tools and while she watched T.V. I took the bike outside and went to work.
It was simple really. Oh, it took me long enough, mostly because I couldn't work out how to make the handlebars (a) go higher and (b) stay higher. In the end I took the whole assembly to pieces, tipped it out over the floor, coated myself in grease and, with a few words of supplication to the unseen saintly guardians of handle-bar adjusters, made it all work.
Let me tell you, it felt good. I had faced my foe and bested him. I was, for that moment, unchallenged master of all bicycle handlebars and I knew what it was to be King.
"Conan, what is best in life?"
"Crush your enemies. See them driven before you. Adjust handlebars."
So I took the now *perfectly* adjusted bike back inside, waved it in the air with the same self-congratulatory grin that mankind has been wearing ever since bringing down that first Mastodon, and sat down on the sofa.
"Bike's fixed," I said. I waited. Nothing. I repeated myself; sure that everyone must have missed the announcement.
"Bike's fixed."
Come on ladies, I wasn't expecting a marching band, but well, you know, something would be nice.
My daughter nodded, and went back to watching the Disney channel.
For a moment my self-esteem deflated like a ten day old balloon. Then a strange metamorphosis took place. I suddenly felt a surge of self worth, a connectedness with all fathers throughout history who's quiet, self sacrificing lives had been spent in the service of their offspring with no more reward than a smile, a grunt and a nod.
I really *was* a Dad. It hadn't occurred to my daughter that I couldn't fix her bike. To her, it was a simple matter of fact. Bike needs fixing; ask Dad. The fact that I hadn't a *clue* how to adjust a seat was as incomprehensible to her as if I had suddenly tried to explain my love for Turkish Delight. And I remembered how I had exactly the same feeling about my own father. You just *knew* he could do stuff. I mean, he was *Dad,* right? And there I was, doing the same sort of thing.
I love playing with my daughter, talking to her, listening to her opinions on dinosaurs and otters and princesses. I love watching her learn to swim, and dance and write. All these things are more precious than can ever be explained in words. I just never thought I would treasure a moment of being taken for granted.
It just goes to show. Being a parent is weird. But it's a nice weird. And if you need your bike adjusting, well, do ask your Dad. He'd probably appreciate it.