"Well," I said as we took the steps down from the patio to the backyard, "If you want to find a roly-poly, it's best to look under stones."

My three-year-old daughter didn't answer. She'd given up a roly-poly on the playground only on the solemn promise that we'd find another one when we got home.

We stopped and squatted over our face shaped, paving stones. Around us a rich, May afternoon was humming with bees and chattering with birds. We found no roly-polys under the first stone but a small, pink worm wiggled and reached out its long nose.

"A worm!" She exclaimed delightedly. "Can I touch it?"

"Sure." I said and moved on to the next stone. Frequent fishing trips had introduced her to large, slimy night crawlers. A little earthworm was not in the least frightening.

The next stone had several roly-polys but they were small and got away into the grass before I could catch one. Under the third, I captured a large, gray one and dropped it, rolled up into its pill shape, into the palm of my hand.

I went to show it to my daughter but she had lost all interest in roly-polys. She had the worm cupped in the palm of her hand and was talking to it earnestly. "You are such a cute little worm, so cute. Are you a good worm? That's good."

It's hard to remember to stop and just look at your children but I managed to for a second. Her round face was so earnest under her yellow hair and it was clear that the long, thin body under the yellow tee shirt and shorts didn't belong to a baby. It was the body of a fast growing, fast moving, little girl. She really did seem taller and wiser than when my wife and I dropped her off at day care that morning.

I felt a faint motion on my hand and found that the roly-poly was making a cross-country trek across my palm. I could feel him as he walked but only occasionally. He was just to light for a palm calloused by thirty-two years of this world to register. It occurred to me that this was like life with my daughter. She is at the start of a long journey and, as she gets older, I'll feel her in my hands less and less. Already, she was picking up mannerisms and language that didn't come from our house. How long till she'll be off with the car and her friends and there would be nothing for a father to do but sit home and fret?

It made me sad to look at my roly-poly and think these thoughts while my daughter lectured her worm on manners but then the wind pushed gently against my back and teased my hair. The weather was unsteady with thickening white clouds and it looked like it might rain by nightfall. Looking around me, I saw irises and fruit trees and a huge mint bush all waiting for the rain. They were all growing without the benefit of someone to hold them ever.

It seemed to me that my daughter was as wild a weed as these plants. I felt what a great gift it is to have any time with her at all. I think I understood for the first time just how fortunate a parent is.

I put my forgotten roly-poly down and went to join my daughter and her worm. I've only got a few hours left in the garden. I don't want to lose a single minute. She'd named the worm "Dirt." I told her it was a good name.

Learn more about this author, Joel Stottlemire.
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