VAIL, Colorado — My toddler daughter hung out alone in the living room. Upstairs in the spare bedroom I looked over my wife's shoulder at the computer screen. We were arguing over what design our Christmas cards should be this year. I couldn't give my full attention to the project because my parenting sense kept warning me that my daughter was unsupervised. Things were suspiciously silent downstairs. Yet I fought the urge to check on her.

Normally my daughter causes enough noise where I can easily track her movements and moods: squeals, whines, thumbs, crashes. This silence made my mind wander to thoughts of all the dangers my daughter could potentially get herself into while she was outside the protective eyes of her parents. These thoughts ranged from the merely messy (pull out all the tissues in the tissue box) to the expensive (dropping my cell phone into the toilet bowl), to the actually dangerous (scaling the bookshelf tower). Yet, I fought the urge to check on her.

The Wife and I are taking a parenting class. Every Monday night we gather to learn how to jujitsu our toddler's energy and willfulness into doing what we want her to do. We're doing this because every month she gets older she becomes less tolerant of being directed. She's intent on exerting more control over her own life.

Case in point: you'd think there would be no trouble when I gave the Kid her favorite meal (scrambled eggs). Yet if I scoop a spoonful toward her mouth, she'll wail and shake her head, threatening a tantrum. Instead I put the spoon down and walk away. Now that she's in control she shovels spoonful after spoonful into her mouth like she's in a competitive eating contest.

This parenting class doesn't just focus on the Kid's behaviors, though. My behaviors as a parent are also under the microscope. At the latest class, I learned of my tendencies to be a “helicopter parent.” This is a parent who hovels over his or her child and swoops down to the rescue at every little danger and challenge. I've heard the term before, creeping into popular magazine articles. These articles highlight the extremes: baby knee-pads, three-year-olds with every minute of the day scheduled with formal activities, the parents who angrily call college professors because their child got a bad test grade.

I don't want to be that parent. I want to let my daughter learn from her mistakes, get bumps on her head and scrapes on her knees. But I also fear the worst-case scenario. I'm deathly afraid of her falling down the stairs … even though I tumbled down stairs countless times as a toddler. I'm no worse for the wear.

So I tried to focus on whether the Christmas card should be red or blue, and whether it should say “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,” or “Season's Greetings.” I tried to let those visions of the Kid juggling knives glide out of my head. I fought the urge to check on her.

Every second stretched itself out. I was determined to give my daughter a little independence. But it was like forcing myself to tread water in an ice cold pond. I knew I would check on her. I just wanted to train myself to let her be alone.

Then I cracked. I walked downstairs and poked my head around the corner. The Kid was now on the kitchen floor surrounded by a potpourri of Tupperware pieces. She looked up at me then turned back to the job of stacking and scattering the plastic containers.

Six minutes: I beat my personal best in leaving the Kid unattended.

Kelly Coffey is a novice father. He shares his mistakes, fears, and laughs along his journey to figure out how anybody could possibly raise a child. E-mail comments or questions about this column to cschnell@vaildaily.com.