Richard Hogan: The fleeting beauty of watching a child growing up before your eyes

The days out cycling, tucking them up in bed, the pushes on swings... there is a last time for all of them when you're a parent, reflects Richard Hogan

'When was the last time I pushed you on a swing? Your little pink Doc Martens trying to kick me. ‘Higher, Daddy’.'

WHEN was the last time we cycled together, father and daughter? The wind in our faces, you looking back (making sure I was in sight), shouting inaudible sentences into the wind.

Or when was the last time your mother cradled you in her arms in public, your hair flowing in the cold sunshine?

I think of all the bicycles you owned through the years: Pink and purple, with lovely baskets on the front. When you were learning how to cycle you swayed like a drunk trying to walk a line, and when you could cycle without the stabilisers you proudly proclaimed: "I’m all grown up now, Daddy".

Did I understand, while I cheered you on, that when you learned how to cycle you were stepping away from me?

I remember all the Christmas mornings you woke to find another magical bike and the tramp of Santa’s ancient boot in snow by the fireplace. I still hear the screams when you discovered Rudolph’s bite marks in a carrot you left out. When was that last Christmas? Did I know it was the last one?

I think of all the flowers you picked from gardens and hung on the basket on your bike; and of the little pretty stones you found on the beach and lined up on the windowsill. I’d find a withered daffodil under your pillow as I tucked you in at night; a seashell in your little yellow raincoat. 

You had a sign on your door, ‘No boys allowed, except Dad’. Now, I knock before I enter.

The inert, dusty curtains are a constant battle. You used to wake up and pull them back and greet the day with a song. Now, you groan. 

Your last bike was black and had no basket. You didn’t pick any flowers for it. Now, it’s rusting in the shed. When was its last adventure, before you drowned in sleep? Before Snapchat and TikTok. Before boys.

Had I known when we headed out on some random Sunday that it was to be our last cycle together, I would have drunk every moment into the marrow of my soul.

I don’t remember that last cycle. How could I have known?

There were days you wanted me to head out with you and I was tired or busy. How I wish I could have one of them back now. How I wish I had that strength again.

When I’d do press-ups on the floor, you’d run in and jump on my back. "Come on, donkey Dad". I could do 20 with you on there, shouting in my ear. I’d lift you over my head, and you’d pretend to be supergirl, flying through the air. I wouldn’t fancy trying that now.

I think of all the games we played and all those days of cycling and stopping for ice cream. We sat together watching ducks, or daffodils in the breeze, whispering our secret language.

When was the last time we watched Mia and Me? And dreamed about Centopia when a full moon was down? 

One morning, you woke screaming. You came thundering into our bedroom. You had discovered a ‘water glare’ on your arm. It was proof you had been to Centopia with Mia and her friends. “I knew I was magic,” you said. I had spent hours the previous night trying to put the ‘water glare’ on your arm as you restlessly slept.

I think of all the nights you’d fall asleep in my arms and I’d carry you up to bed. I’d whisper that I loved you as I pulled the blanket to keep you warm; in some hazy dream state, you’d tell me you loved me, too. 

I’d watch you sleep and try to fight some negative thoughts about brevity and transience. Lines of poetry crept around my mind, ‘Nothing gold can stay’. When was the last time I tucked you in?

You used to squeeze my hand three times in a crowd to tell me, ‘I love you’. I’d squeeze it back four times, ‘I love you, too’. When was the last time we did that? Your little hand dwarfed in my trunk hand? If I squeezed it now, would you know what I was saying?

When was the last time I pushed you on a swing, your little pink Doc Martens trying to kick me? “Higher, Daddy,” you’d say.

Cherish your children

WHEN did we last enter a playground together, your sparkly dress blowing in the wind as you ran to some slide? I don’t remember. 

The muted damage of time. You don’t see the change until one day you wake up and you’re getting something from the shed and notice the bike forlorn in the corner. Then, you realise you haven’t been asked to cycle in months, maybe years.

Older people tell young parents to cherish their children, because it all passes so quickly. You think they are speaking in clichés, but those clichés are true.

Everything changes. If only we could know when the last cycle was, the last tuck-in at night, or last excitement on Christmas morning, maybe we would cherish them like those old people said. 

Maybe we have to see what is in front of us now not to miss it.

Those childhood days are gone. No more cycles to the castle or ice cream van or telling funny stories about clouds. 

But something else stretches out ahead now: Pay attention. Don’t miss it.