"Dad. Come on. None of my friends had to wait this long." It was, in fact, several days after Emily's 15th birthday before I got her to the license bureau for her driving permit. That's been a year ago this December. Now, at 16, she's driving on her own with no requirement that I ride along to point out hazards, to instruct her in the ways of the motorized world, to explicate the woeful and unreckoned insanity of drivers.

As Americans, we raise our children with the understanding of independence. Parenthood is a constant process of letting go, complete with meager victories in which a practical nature overcomes cries of heart and soul and need.

I've been woefully unprepared for parenthood from the start. Having never been enamored of babies, I was surprised by the intensity of emotion when I first held Emily. Roma and I had avoided the subject of children for many years after marriage. Roma, the youngest of her family, went straight from college into a professional job and focused on career. Never one to take advantage of a good example, I remained unfocused. We were late in starting a family.

Still, Emily proved an adept instructor. She taught me parenthood quickly. She'd insist on holding my hand as she climbed monkey bars on playgrounds. She required me to climb beside her until she reached the top. At the summit, she'd announce, "Daddy, don't be afraid; you hold tight a minute." She'd let go of my hand, brace her legs against a cross bar and raise both hands skyward in celebration of accomplishment. Just as quickly she'd grab my hand and reassure me that she'd help in my descent.

Older now, she has the shape and size of a woman. But I still see my baby girl. Right there. In her eyes, quick smile, the quizzical tilt of head. Despite her age and ability, it frightens me that she's in a car driving through a dangerous world without my protection.

Against a modern sensibility, I became her protector on her first car ride home from the hospital. I burned with a lion-sized ferocity when any vehicle dared come too close to ours. I still do.

She always sensed that protection. One winter night when Emily had just turned 3, she ran across the living room, grabbed my leg and squeezed with all the intensity possible in her short, pudgy arms. "Hold me, Daddy. It's dark outside," she whispered, the quiver of fear vibrating her speech. For some odd reason, I remember the scene vividly. I was wearing painter's pants and an old baseball shirt. I had just put Charlie, my new baby boy, to bed.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" I asked, lifting her up and rubbing her back, which my hand almost entirely covered. "It's just night." But Emily wouldn't answer. She buried her face in my shirt, clutched me more tightly and shook her head back and forth, baby-fine, blonde-brown hair in upright pigtails tickling my throat and chin. Her actions evoked yet again a fathomless, chest-constricting love.

I understood then, and I know now, that it is dark outside. Children need to be held. Children need to be protected from an evil that surely exists. Intellectually I understand that children must be given the opportunity to step, falter and let go. The process begins with wobbly steps from couch to coffee table, continues from home to school, from child to adolescent, from passenger to driver. But comprehension doesn't aid transition.

What I can do, Roma says, is encourage explorations, continue with driving advice and glare dutifully at violators.

So remember. We must all drive carefully. We must all be protective. Because Emily's out there, along with all children. Without us.