My Daughter, Out There... On The Beam

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Here's Stephen. She didn't make a sound. You have a daughter, the doctor announced, before whispering something else to the nurses. His eyes silently spoke volumes as the O.R.

team quickly went back to work. Not even a minute old, and already I felt such love for her. And still, I was absolutely powerless to help my baby girl. But I'm her daddy, I thought to myself. I'm supposed to be able to protect her, to keep her safe.

And still, all I could do was watch from the sidelines and do nothing. It was out of my hands. She came home from the hospital five days later, and for a while I kept her safe for as long as I could, until the time came when I couldn't. Destiny demanded that Tracy would one day become a gymnast. After all, she began practicing for the sport while still sleeping in a crib. Twice, Karen and I found her roaming the house long after she and her stuffed animal friends had been tucked in for the night.

Determined to learn how this feat was being accomplished, we waited and watched. And eventually, we saw our not-quite-two-year-old scaling the sides of her crib with the amazing agility of Sir Edmund Hillary repelling Mount Everest. Rather than running the risk of her plummeting during one of her nighttime escapades, we thought it best if she made the transition from crib to big girl bed. But in hindsight, how could we have known that her perilous climbing adventures would one day give way to her spending her autumn afternoons on blue-matted floors as a member of her high school gymnastics team? In retrospect, I now view her early years as a time when the risks she faced were comparably minimal to those before her today.

A time, not so long ago, when her blankie and her daddy's arms were more than enough to keep her safe. In the moments leading up to the start of the competition, both teams were warming up out on the floor. A dread began to grow within me as I watched the slow and calculated maneuvers being executed atop the balance beam by two gymnasts as they tweaked their routines and last-minute preparations.

Tracy, however, wasn't one of them, at least for the moment. Instead, I saw her stretching on the floor in her new competition leotards, or Leos, as she'd recently corrected me. Soon enough, though, she would be out there performing, and once again, I'd be helplessly watching from the sidelines.

Admittedly, what scares me the most is that when Tracy competes on the beam, she's on her own, potentially at risk, vulnerable, and through it all, I feel as I did in the moments following her birth. Absolutely powerless, and for me, this is a problem. I'm her daddy. I'm supposed to protect her and to keep her safe.

After all, this has been my job forever. But today, once again, when she begins her routine, all I can do is watch from the sidelines and do nothing. Once again, it's out of my hands. For almost two hours, she was out there, on her own, and when she mounted the balance beam, I held my breath and watched. A twist, a turn, a handstand, some fancy footwork, a surprising cartwheel, a few leaps, and then an aerial front-tuck somersaulting dismount. All safely executed, her hands raised in the air, her smile radiant. She nailed it again.

Back in the stands, my breathing resumes. She's getting better every day, honing her talents, mastering her skills. Later, on the ride home, we rehashed the entire meet, and I realized, at least for the moment, my little girl was safe. And my grudging admission, she's not so little anymore.

How did this happen? I mean, when did my little, crib-climbing escape artist suddenly become the 16-year-old, Leo-wearing gymnastics competitor anyway? I'm well aware that my fears of watching her perform, especially on the balance beam, are in part, a metaphor for all the concerns that I'll always have for her well-being. It's inevitable that as she grows older, she'll be confronted with so many of life's obstacles. And when she is, I'll always be there, still a little nervous, sometimes worried, but always proud of her, just like I am today. And so, for the rest of her gymnastics career, I'll quietly remain another spectator daddy sitting in the stands, continuing, as she competes, to both cringe and celebrate her determination and independence as she has the time of her life out there on the beam. And thanks, as always, to Steven Raciniak for the work he does for us, and thanks to Faith for producing the story. And my goodness, what a story it is of a father, well, in the end, just having to do nothing sometimes and watch and just support his little girl and be there when she falls.

That crib-climbing escape artist is now walking the high beam. It's a great metaphor for life. What a great father-daughter story.

So much is written about fathers and sons, not enough about fathers and daughters. Thanks to Steve Raciniak, his story, his daughter Tracy's story, here on Our American Stories. Music From any small or large to our email OAS at OurAmericanStories.com.

That's OAS at OurAmericanStories.com. We'd love to hear them and put them on the air. Our audience loves them too. With Amex, there's always a new experience to explore. From curating the perfect vacation and chilling in the Centurion Lounge before you get there.

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