“Come on, troublemaker,” I say. “We’ve got a subway to catch.”
Seven minutes into our walk, Emma tugs on my hand. “Can we get a pretzel from the cart?”
“Em, we don’t have time.”
“Please?”
I sigh, trying not to lose my patience. “Emma, we’re almost at the subway station.”
“C’mon, Daddy. Please? Just a small one?”
I look down at her. She’s giving me the eyes—the big, blue, pleading eyes that she absolutely knows work on me. She’s been weaponizing those eyes since she was eight months old.
“Fine. A small one.”
“Yes!” She does a little jump, splashing muddy water on my pants.
We stop at the cart on the corner—the same guy who’s been there for years, selling pretzels and hot dogs that taste questionable but somehow never make anyone sick. I hand over a dollar and he gives Emma a pretzel in wax paper, still warm.
She takes a bite and grins at me, mustard on her cheek. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome.”
We keep walking, and Emma’s talking about something else now—a story about a girl in her preschool class who brought in a hamster for show and tell—and I’m only half listening because I’m watching the time and thinking about the lecture, running through my notes in my head.Prefrontal cortex development. Executive function. Impulse control in children and adolescents.
I’ll explain to my students that the prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed until the mid-twenties. I’ll show them fMRI scans demonstrating differences in activation patterns betweenchildren and adults during decision-making tasks. I’ll cite longitudinal studies on neural development.
What I won’t tell them is that knowing all of this doesn’t help when your four-year-old is having a meltdown in the cereal aisle. That understanding the neuroscience of attachment doesn’t make you better at comforting a child who’s grieving someone who’s still alive.
That sometimes knowledge is completely and utterly useless.
We reach the subway station and head down the stairs. The platform is crowded—people huddled under umbrellas, shaking off rain, looking generally miserable about being awake and commuting. Emma finishes her pretzel and wipes her hands on her jacket, which I’ll have to wash later, adding it to the ever-growing list of things I need to do.
The train pulls in and we squeeze into the car. I keep Emma close, one hand on her shoulder, and we grab a pole near the door. She looks up at me, mustard still on her cheek.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good dad.”
The words hit me harder than they should. “Thanks, Em. I try.”
“Even when you say no to pretzels.”
I bark out a laugh. “I said yes to the pretzel!”
“I know! That’s why you’re a good dad.”
The train lurches forward and Emma grabs onto my leg to steady herself. Through the window I can see the tunnel walls flying past, dark and endless, and I think about how this is what every day feels like now. Moving forward but not sure where I’m going.
The ride takes seventeen minutes, which is actually faster than usual. We get off at First Avenue and climb the stairs back up to street level. The rain has let up to a drizzle, but the air stillfeels heavy and damp. I check my watch. 10:38. We’re actually making decent time.
“What do you think Yiayia’s going to say when she sees you?” I ask as we start walking.
Emma scrunches up her face, thinking hard. Then she throws her arms wide and says in the most exaggerated Greek accent I’ve ever heard, “Emma! My preciouskoukla mou!” She even waves her hands around for emphasis.
I burst out laughing. “That’s scarily accurate, kid.”
