When the girls were really little—the still-talking-funny, wide-eyed-about-everything little—we kept screen time on a tight leash. No endless YouTube spirals, no algorithm babysitting. Just carefully chosen things that felt worth their attention.
One of those things turned out to be the astronauts aboard the International Space Station.
At first, I thought it would be a novelty, a quick peek at floating hair and zero-gravity toothpaste. But they loved it. They really loved it. Especially Commander Chris Hadfield, or as he became known in our house: Space Chris.
They’d watch him make a sandwich in microgravity or explain why you can’t cry in space. The girls giggled through every video, fascinated not just by the floating things but by the idea that people actually live up there.
Chris was such a natural communicator. He didn’t just talk science; he made space feel human. That kind of thing sticks with kids. It stuck with me too.
When his autobiography came out, I didn’t read it right away, but because of those videos, I wanted to. And when I finally did, I enjoyed it. Later I read two of his novels—the first one was pretty good, the second one not so much, but still worth the read.
Even now, when I come across something about him or the space station, I think back to those days when the W Sisters were small and completely captivated by Space Chris. Watching them watch him was just as much fun as the videos themselves.
I like to think those moments gave them something lasting—maybe not a love of space exactly, but at least a curiosity that lifts off now and then. And that’s enough for me.