“Did you clean your butt?” I asked.

“Yes, daddy,” my daughter (Ivy) said, not even attempting to contain her chuckling.

“Did you clean your bits?” I asked.

“Yes, daddy,” she said, the traces of her smile still apparent in her voice.

“Did you wash your hair?” I followed up.

“Yes, dad! I did everything!” She said, feigning exasperation and dripping with self-assuredness (and soapy bubbles).

“Well, damn,” I thought to myself. “I guess I’m no longer needed here.”

Ivy was still four years old when she transitioned from baths to showers. It started as a novelty – she wanting to feel like a big girl and wash herself like mommy and daddy. We obliged and watched her struggle to get a good lather, miss large portions of her body, forget steps, etc. We would step in and correct her and always take the task of shampooing and brushing through her tight curls for ourselves, labeling that a mommy and daddy job. Still, Ivy delighted in that feeling of independence. Furthermore, she strived to complete the task ever more independently with diminishing levels of parental intervention. After what must only have been a few weeks, our vocal checklist of steps was invariably met with a string of ‘yeses,’ the exasperation seeping into the replies earlier and earlier in the process. Eventually, my wife and I found ourselves just hovering around the shower like bouncers outside of a night club. And far too late into this transition I had the thoughts, “so… we’ve given her her last bath already?” and “so… we just get this time back now?”

That was the most impactful change over the past year but there have been several other examples of Ivy taking the reigns on tasks her mother and I used to have to complete for her. These instances used to feel completely like novelties. She had entered the ‘I can do it by myself’ phase and I, in all honesty, had entered the ‘ok sure. Let’s see how badly you fuck this up and make mommy and I clean up after you’ phase. Don’t judge me. Keep in mind that that is only the internal rumination of a perpetually exhausted, very involved father, ever craving task efficiency and 0.75-3.21 minutes of time to just sit down between tasks for a change. I always (mostly) encourage her to do for herself and do my best not to vocalize my frustrations. Besides, I was often right and she did make a total botch-job of things, but, with our encouragement, increasingly frequently she would surprise me by actually not needing our assistance.

It has only been very recently that a sense of melancholy has crept into my perspective on this, and I think the feeling is way premature. For the first time in my fathering career, I have become aware that my utility is fading and that, one day, my little girl won’t need me anymore. Keep in mind that the girl in question has not yet entered kindergarten and I am aware that I’m being overly-dramatic and preemptive. I need to tell myself to remain present in the now because the future will come at its own pace and all of that BS, but whenever I remind myself of that it’s just a reminder that, in that nebulous future, exists a grown-ass version of my daughter who has a job and a car and an apartment and (gasp), a significant other. Gross. No thank you. But what’s a dad to do when he sees this little image of himself, who, just a few years ago, could not walk or talk, is now making her own sandwiches and learning team sports? Should my wife and I so covet Ivy’s precious dependence that we inhibit her growth? Of course not. We’re too prideful about how awesome she is becoming to be selfish enough to get in the way, anyway. Still, this ridiculously early gut-check to my usefulness is a real thing and the doomsday clock of parenting a “dependent” has begun for me.

Besides, one day I may need her to be strong enough to take care of me when the joints on this 6’5” frame inevitably fail and my memory gets even worse than it is. Speaking of memory, that aspect of her mental acuity, alone, is proof enough that my own brain clearly hit its peak a long time ago. Someone will ask me on a Monday what I did over the weekend and I will struggle to remember, yet someone will ask Ivy the same question and her answer will be as follows:

“I played soccer and then I took a shower before we went to Dave and Buster’s. I liked playing the motorcycle game and the fishing game. I looked for the game with Venom and Spider Gwen but they didn’t have it anymore. Last time I played it and it gave me cards. Venom is my favorite because he has sharp pointy teeth and he eats the bad guys. Then we had lunch and I had lemonade and mac & cheese, but you know what’s the best part?… After that we had Dippin Dots. When we got home I wanted to play the lost tiger game or the statue game but mommy and daddy wanted to relax for a little while so they let me watch some TV. I LOVE TV! But after that we went to Raccoon Taproom and met up with Ms. Laura and Mr. Josh and Greta and Lila and ate sandwiches and mommy and daddy had beers. And you know what’s the best part? They have Pac Man and I got to play. And I got my own juice out of the refrigerator… I had two. Then we went home. Then on Sunday…”

So, yeah… Her brain is better than mine – and that’s a good thing. It’s just that she seems to be becoming too smart and independent too quickly for my liking. I don’t know what I expected or if most dads get their first sense of this feeling as early as I am, but it’s a strange dichotomy of immense pride and a wistful sense of loss for this completely dependent little person we’ve grown accustomed to raising. We’ve spent all of this time trying to teach her how to do things for herself and she turns around and betrays us by having the audacity to learn them.

Verdict: Incomplete (but already too complete)

P.S. This is (coincidentally) being posted on Mother’s Day 2026. Special thanks to my wife, Megan, for being a wonderful mother and role model. You are amazing. To my mom, Sharen: Thanks for always being my biggest fan. You always put RJ’s and my needs before your own. And, to my mother-in-law, Maria: I think I’m supposed to have horror stories about my in-laws to complain about with my friends. You’ve made it too easy on me.