"Eyes Up, Dad"

Parenting isn’t just about showing up — it’s about looking up and being the audience they’ll remember forever.

There’s a particular smell to kids’ gyms — a faint cocktail of rubber mats, stale socks, and crushed Goldfish crackers that have fused into the floorboards from the sheer force of toddler chaos. That’s where I spend my Saturday mornings now. My daughter just started gymnastics.

She’s three, which means we’re not exactly talking Simone Biles level here. It’s more of a “try not to fall off the foam block” level of athleticism. But man, she treats it like the Olympics. She walks into that gym like she’s got sponsors.

My wife and I trade off taking her — the great parental baton pass of modern marriage. But when it’s my turn, I go all in. I show up, not just in body, but in mind. Because that’s the real trick these days, isn’t it? Showing up mentally.

It’s easy to be present in the attendance sense. You know, your name’s on the sign-in sheet, your butt’s in the bleachers, you’ve technically fulfilled the dad requirement. But being there? Actually watching, actually paying attention — that’s the part we’re losing somewhere between Slack notifications and grocery list tabs.

I’ll sit on the side of the mat and watch my daughter climb the little foam mountain. She’s nervous but determined — a combo I recognize from my own life anytime I’ve tried to assemble IKEA furniture. She’s looking at the coach, at her classmates, at her hands gripping the bar. But every so often, she looks over at me.

And when she does — when she looks right at me to see if I’m watching — that’s the moment I feel like I’ve been hit with a defibrillator made of pure love and guilt.

Because around me, I see other parents. Some on laptops. Some scrolling through their phones. Some gossiping about god-knows-what. It’s not judgment, it’s observation. I get it — life’s heavy, emails don’t stop, and Target’s app isn’t going to scroll itself. But as I watch a half-dozen kids wave toward the bleachers only to get silence in return, I can’t help but think — this is the stuff that sticks.

It’s not the medal they’ll remember. It’s not the cartwheel or the blue ribbon. It’s the moment they looked for us and found us looking back.

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There’s something magical in being the audience to your kid’s firsts — their first jump off the block, their first tumble, their first big win. The look on their face when they pull it off is pure, unfiltered pride. But the look when they see you saw it? That’s the fuel that powers their little souls.

And I swear, when my daughter lands her first little somersault and pops up with that wild grin, looking around until she locks eyes with me — it’s like the whole world blurs out. I give her the classic dad thumbs-up, because that’s in our DNA. She beams. I beam. And I know, in that microscopic second, I’m doing it right.

That’s all she really wants. Not approval. Not praise. Just presence.

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I know how easy it is to miss these moments. I’ve missed plenty myself. Work runs late, or the baby’s melting down at home, or your brain’s still replaying some conversation from earlier that day. And then suddenly your kid’s waving, and you realize they’ve been waving for five seconds and you just caught the tail end of it. You wave back, but it’s too late — the moment’s already slipped away.

And sure, there’ll be more gymnastics classes. More games. More recitals. But not infinite more.

Because one day, she’ll hang up that leotard. One day, she’ll stop looking over to make sure I’m watching. One day, she won’t need my thumbs-up — or worse, won’t want it. That’s the clock that’s always ticking in the background of parenthood. Every game, every class, every random Saturday morning in a gym full of shrieking kids and Goldfish dust is one step closer to the last one.

So I watch. I cheer. I laugh when she faceplants. I give her a thumbs-up when she gets it right and a “you got this” grin when she doesn’t. Because she’s not just learning gymnastics — she’s learning courage, effort, and resilience. And she’s learning it with my eyes on her.

That’s what “showing up” means.

It’s not about having perfect attendance. It’s about witnessing their growth — being the living, breathing proof that their little triumphs matter.

When she nails that cartwheel, she’s not looking to see if she did it right. She’s looking to see if I saw her do it right.

And I did. Every time.

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Maybe the next time you’re at a recital, or a soccer game, or a karate belt test — put the phone down. Look up. Don’t scroll. Don’t half-listen. Just watch. Watch like it’s the last one. Because someday, it will be.

Your kid won’t remember what you were buying online, but they’ll remember your eyes on them when they stuck the landing.

That’s what I’m learning in these gym bleachers — that the scoreboard for parenting isn’t measured in trophies or ribbons or “perfect attendance.” It’s measured in moments of connection.

So yeah, show up. But show up for real.

Eyes up, Dad.

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Tonight’s Drink: The Gold Medal Dad

This one’s for the parents who are mentally present, even when they’re physically exhausted.

Ingredients:
– 2 oz Irish whiskey
– ¾ oz honey syrup (equal parts honey and hot water)
– ½ oz fresh lemon juice
– ¼ oz cinnamon liqueur
– 2 dashes Angostura bitters
– Top with ginger beer

Instructions:
Shake the whiskey, honey syrup, lemon juice, cinnamon liqueur, and bitters with ice.
Strain into a chilled rocks glass filled with fresh ice.
Top with ginger beer and give it a gentle stir.
Garnish with a small slice of candied ginger — bonus points if your kid thinks it’s candy and tries to steal it.

Tastes like: Pride, exhaustion, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you actually saw the moment — and didn’t scroll past it.