Crabwalk

As horses approach the starting gates, they sometimes crabwalk. It’s a sign they’re nervous, their version of trembling hands, or a shirt soaked under the arms. On other days, they walk straight in, unfazed by the pressure and the speed.

For all my crabwalking as a parent, I was cool today when my daughter rode off on a big horse, with strangers, under the blazing sun. A voice said: horses need her as much as she needs them, so bring them together and let them pass. For an hour I turned my attention elsewhere while she cantered away, out of sight, along miles of white fences. In the shade by the paddock, I practiced my flip kick in slow motion. Leg up, knee to stomach, parallel to the ground like a chicken wing. Then straight out to the side. I could hold it there for a few seconds, refold it, and rest it on the ground. My son flew down the slide, killing time. Up, out, refold, down. Let them pass.