My son’s impending entry into kindergarten this fall is causing problems in my life. Not the least of which will be his eventual ability to read the channel guide as I try to quickly scroll past the names of his garbage programs.

I need to make all sorts of schedules now. Schedules mean planning, and I don’t like planning. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing six months in advance? I don’t even know what I did two days ago, and that was two days! Ago! (I went on a bar crawl, so what did you expect? I’m surprised I’m awake right now.)

But I’m a parent. Of a soon-to-be kindergartener. Planning has become an unavoidable part of my life. I mean, it’s even part of “planning” an escape.

It’s like I’m being mocked.

Unfortunately, planning and scheduling and budgeting are a major part of being a parent. It’s totally lame. But planning is what separates man from the animals. It’s what makes you an adult. It’s when you are forced to constantly look ahead and consider the future. And not just the future of your own life, but the future of other people’s lives. Endless potential trajectories require countless contingencies. Once you start factoring other people into your life, it becomes a logistical nightmare – times infinity when you have kids!

I have enough stress without having to try to predict it.

His schedule is my schedule — ripoff!

Over-planned parenthood is your everyday reality when you become a parent. In the early years, it was not such a big deal. When your kids aren’t yet in school, they don’t have tons of extracurricular activities unless you count doctor’s visits and the occasional play date. They are still pretty easy, relatively speaking. That changes fast.

So right now, let’s focus on the most important thing: vacation!

We won’t find out what school he’ll be attending for another few weeks, but already we’re faced with planning our summer and our fall. We want to go somewhere, but since the kid will be in the real deal school system in September, we are beholden to that system’s calendar. This means planning is a lot more difficult. It’s no longer about getting time off of work; it’s also about making sure the kid doesn’t miss learning about consonants and vowels or whatever the hell goes on in kindergarten these days.

(He’s been in preschool since the past September but that hardly counts; we’ve never worried about pulling him out of preschool if need be. But kindergarten is the real deal. Kindergarten is important. Kindergarten has a German name! You don’t fuck with kindergarten.)

It’s also about making sure we don’t get screwed.

Kindergarten has an actual schedule to adhere to so we have to take our vacations at the same time as everyone else. If we don’t book something now (read: two months ago), we’ll be paying through the nose for the world’s last remaining hotel room. Which means we have to plan ahead. By the time we’re done, I’m going to need a vacation just from planning my vacation.

I certainly never planned for this! I just wanted the tax break.

+ + +

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

My wife worships Christmas.

Once the Thanksgiving dishes are done, it’s all Yule, all the time for her. Nothing but Christmas music in the car, Christmas movies on the television, and Christmas shopping on the weekends.

And she was like this BEFORE we had a kid. Now that he’s here, and he’s alive enough to begin to understand Santa and presents and cookies and the tree and all that, not only has my wife’s Christmas-loving resolve strengthened, but I no longer have a Scroogey cane to stand on.

Especially on Christmas Eve when there’s work to do!

This past Christmas the kid had a sense of what was happening, in that he enjoyed tearing the brightly colored wrapping paper off things that were handed to him. This year, he understands toys and seems to get the concept of presents. So it’s game on for the Wife!

Now that our kid is in the know, my wife’s Christmas obsession is in the stratosphere. She wants nothing more than to give our son a good Christmas, which means making sure all the TV he watches is Christmas-themed, all the songs he sings – and he does sing – are Christmas songs, and that he is indoctrinated into the (fraudulent) magic of Santa Claus.

He has been told who Santa is, can identify him in a lineup, and seems genuinely excited about him delivering presents overnight. So yeah, the kid is into the whole Santa Claus thing, so long as that “thing” doesn’t involve going anywhere near an actual person dressed as Santa Claus.

Of course, to complete the illusion, most of the gifts my son will be getting have been signed “From Santa” and, most importantly, none of them are under the tree before he goes to bed on Christmas Eve.

This means after he goes to sleep that night, a half-in-the-bag Daddy is forced to lug everything down from various hiding places throughout the house and down the stairs so that they will magically appear under the tree by the time he wakes up.

I am OK with it. Christmas magic hasn’t happened here in a while and the whole holiday had gotten pretty stale around here, but now that there’s a kid around, the holidays are re-energized, and that’s nice.

Provided I don’t break my neck carrying a huge wooden train set down the stairs.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

I’ve been a father for almost 11 years, but I haven’t felt like one for nearly that long.

“Imposter syndrome” refers to the feelings of doubt one has about their abilities and accomplishments. With it comes the fear of being exposed as a fraud. It’s usually mentioned in regard to one’s professional life (which: YES), but I actually feel it more frequently as a parent.

Every morning when I wake up – often forcefully, thanks to my toddler – I’m starting from zero. I live in perpetual fear my kids are suddenly going to realize I have no idea what I’m doing.

I know I’m not alone. Being a father isn’t something you study for or get certified in, and it’s not something you list on your resume – although maybe it should be. Getting a toddler to eat dinner and use the potty and brush his teeth is a hell of a lot more challenging than selling widgets!

Fatherhood isn’t so easily quantifiable. I have two children, so I’m a dad by dint of biology and genetics, and that fact won’t change. But feeling like I’m one? That changes constantly.

I first felt like a father on September 15, 2010, approximately 15 minutes past 8 pm, when I cut my son’s umbilical cord. One step forward.

Of course, that sense of accomplishment was nowhere to be found at 8:15 yesterday morning, after the third time I yelled at my 10-year-old to find his damn shoes so we wouldn’t be late for school. Two steps back.

Any progress I make tends to be erased quickly thereafter – sometimes mere moments later.

I finally felt like a father again this afternoon, when I walked in and my 5-year-old ran over to give me a hug. The feeling was ripped away a few hours later when I retrieved my fifth grader from school, and he refused to tell me a single thing about his day. So close, and yet, so far.

Every day, a thousand tiny moments make me question whether I’m cut out to be dad. Meanwhile, a thousand more make me feel like it’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s a constant roller-coaster ride, but I actually prefer it that way.

It stops me from becoming complacent. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being a dad (and from Star Wars), it’s that overconfidence is your weakness.

Parenting is unpredictable. You weather one phase only to drown in the next. Then you survive teething only to blow the sex talk. You master potty-training only to flail at helping with fractions.

It’s spontaneous and scary and exhilarating and overwhelming and life-defining and completely disorienting all at once. I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable with it.

When did I first feel like a father? It’s been over a decade and I still don’t.

But ask me again tomorrow.

A version of the above first appeared on Dad and Buried.

Tips to Help Overcome Imposter Syndrome for Parents

• Ask your spouses/partner for help reinforcing the positive attributes of each other’s parenting. Ask them to avoid being judgmental of the other’s parenting actions
• Understand most parents are also learning as they go, and none have the right answer/solution for every situation with their children.
• Realize that many “perfect” parents on your social media feeds are cherry-picking what they show you. All have human moments like the rest of us.
• Join a parenting social/support group. You’ll find how common imposter syndrome is, and some encouragement to help overcome it.

Photo: © Andrey Popov / Adobe Stock.

So we did it. We finally got ourselves a king-size mattress.

Unfortunately, we also got ourselves a kid.

My son was always a good sleeper. We cried it out, he got the point, and from a few months in, he was sleeping through the night pretty consistently. There have been speed bumps, but nothing out of the ordinary. So when we converted his crib to a bed we foolishly told him he could get out of it when he woke up, rather than sit there and scream our names for 30 minutes. Not the best idea.

Over the last few weeks, he’s been waking up repeatedly, and having a hard time getting back to sleep. He claims he’s scared and just needs a snuggle, but I think it’s a ploy. (If it’s not a ploy, then I’m a mean, heartless asshole, so I’m sticking with “it’s a ploy.”) He’s a trickster, this kid, and his endgame is our bed.

Apparently, we let him in one time too many, and now he’s addicted. It’s fine once in a while; I won’t deny it’s nice to have him next to me some nights. But it’s also nice to sleep, and most of the time when he’s in our bed, he’s the only one sleeping. (At least, I think he’s sleeping. If he’s consciously kicking me in the face and crotch all night, then let’s just say we have bigger problems than him pretending to be scared of stuff!)

I know there are people who love “co-sleeping” as it’s sometimes called, and as I mentioned, it has its perks. But I cuddle my son plenty during the day, so I think I’m covered there. And I desperately need the little sleep that is left in my life. With him in my bed, that goes away.

The one thing that makes his presence even slightly tolerable is our king bed. We had a queen for the first two years of his life, and trying to fit a third person in that thing, even a tiny one, was like playing Tetris and always losing. We thought the bigger mattress would help, and it does, but even the king isn’t always big enough. We’ve even taken to turning the sheets sideways when he joins us so that he can sleep between us without potentially falling off – though the sound of a toddler kerplunking onto the floor is undeniably delightful! – and we can each have some room to navigate without feeling trapped.

But now that he keeps waking up and demanding to sleep in our bed without taking no for an answer, it’s becoming more frequent. And because we’re caving, the bed-sharing cycle continues, and his dependency grows stronger.

If he were still a baby, it would be easy to share a bed with the little guy (if I weren’t worried about smothering him to death, of course). Or we could even cry it out again (spare me your protests), but there’s something different about ignoring someone who can actually scream your name (not that that’s stopped me with my wife!) I’ll gladly ignore my son when he’s a teenager, but right now it just seems cruel.

So we’re trying to find new ways to break him of this habit. I’m thinking that maybe letting him catch us in a compromising position might do it, except every time he sees us hugging he runs over to join in so that could backfire in spectacular fashion.

The kicker about sharing a bed with the boy is that my wife kind of loves having him there with us. So there’s a decent chance I’ll just be on the couch until he’s 12.

A version of Bed Sharing first appeared on Dad and Buried. Bed-sharingPhoto: © chikala / Adobe Stock.

No matter how hard you stress the importance of honesty, kids will still lie. It’s human nature.

My kid isn’t even 3 and I’ve already seen it happening. I’m not always sure that’s he truly lying about not having pooped or if he’s just so used to having poop in his pants that he can’t tell the difference, but sometimes he’s lying about it. Because he doesn’t want his diaper changed. Because he’s gross. But I digress.

Dealing with lying children is part of being a parent. I knew that going in, and I’m ready for it.

But I didn’t know how much lying I’d be doing.

Pro tip: Kids will believe anything. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Jesus, democracy. They’ll buy it all, especially if a parent is selling it. And now that I’m dealing with an increasingly curious and willful toddler, my house is like Amazon. I’m selling more BS than any politician.

Let’s be clear. I am not lying to my kid about anything significant or in an attempt to pervert his worldview. No sinister reasons like that. I’m lying to my son purely as a matter of convenience, also known as: the reason for 90 percent of all parenting decisions.

Kids are such a pain so much of the time that when you have an opportunity to make things even a little bit easier for yourself, you’ve got to take it. Sure, maybe lying to my son all the time will backfire and result in a dishonest person who eventually becomes president of the United States, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

So yeah, I lie to my son. And I’ll keep lying. Especially when he asks me why I drink so much because screaming “YOU!” in his face isn’t appropriate.

Once my kid started talking, he hasn’t stopped asking questions. There is just nothing easy about satisfying a toddler’s curiosity. Why? Because they often can’t understand factual explanations and because they just enjoy being annoying and asking annoying questions and annoyingly annoying you in the most annoying way possible. So lying becomes a necessity for parents, both because you don’t always know the factual explanations and because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT UP!

Lying by example

Example 1: If we’re trying to get the kid to nap or go to sleep, we’ll tell him we’re going to bed, too! Even if it’s barely 8 p.m. And by “going to bed,” we mean “having three martinis and passing out when Stephen Colbert gets to the interview.” But he doesn’t need to know that because he needs to go to sleep. BBy any means necessary.

Example 2: If we’re trying to get out of the house and he refuses to leave because he can’t find his little stuffed dog, we’ll tell him the dog went out for a walk and that it would be home when he got back because the little moron doesn’t understand that stuffed animals are inanimate objects, and get your shoes on dammit, we’re going to be late!

Example 3: If he’s acting like a twerp and it’s at least relatively close to Christmas, we’ll tell him Santa is going to drop a grenade down the chimney instead of any presents so GET DOWN OFF THE FURNITURE AND EAT YOUR DINNER!

Obviously, none of those things are true. I’m not even sure we have a martini shaker (of course we do —  have you met my wife?). But those lies, or things like them, can be effective. There’s an entire industry built around lying during the Christmas season, with Santa’s list and “Elf on the Shelf” and virgin births and all that jazz. Because when it comes to manipulating children, lying is effective, at least in the short term. Which is usually all you need.

The trouble comes later, when the kid somehow remembers one of those lies. You’re stuck having to explain that you and mommy aren’t actually professional wrestlers like those guys on TV. And, no, you were just wrestling that one morning and, hey, look over there, your stuffed dog came back!

Sucker.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried. Photo: © ruigsantos / Adobe Stock.

Over the weekend, my son unleashed his first swear word.

The chosen curse was “bitch!” And as far as my wife and I could tell, he didn’t direct it at anyone. He just kind of said it. And it was pretty evident that he had no idea what it meant.

But that didn’t stop the household from doing some soul-searching.

I curse a lot, but that’s not the sum of my character. I usually curse for emphasis, or for laughs. But regardless of my rationalizations, those words – once so forbidden, both in my home and, more generally, in the world at large – are a part of my vocabulary. And my wife’s too. You’re probably no stranger to the occasional curse word yourself; who is, these days? (Oh, you are? Congratulations, you’re going to heaven!) Not everyone casually swears, but I’m fairly confident more people do today than when my parents were my age. We can probably blame TV.

I love pop culture and I’m no prude; I plan to introduce my son to a lot of my favorite examples of it. Just not yet. He’s only 3! Which is actually kind of good, because even if he accidentally sees a second of one of Daddy’s adult TV shows, odds are he’s not going to start shooting people or having sex with them like everyone on Game of Thrones does. Even catching just the merest glimpses of sex and violence can affect a kid (and can be internalized in profound ways), but until you’re at least a little bit older than my son, that kind of behavior is less easily copied. Repeating bad language, though, is a cinch, especially with toddlers, who are parrots from the get-go.

Kids copy what they see, their behavior reflects their parents, and how it’s important not to encourage the wrong things. Cursing is a perfect example of all three of those things. They’re gonna hear their share of swear words via entertainment, and their friends, and other adults, but it’s when they hear them from their parents that it makes the most impact. And that’s who they’re gonna copy, more often than not. So my wife and I need to take responsibility for my son sounding like a rap lyric.

I’m not always proud of the language I use, but I don’t think swearing is inherently wrong, provided that it’s not constant, is used in the right (or at least not in the wrong) context, and isn’t deployed with malice. But I’m an adult. My son is not. It will take him some time to understand the impact of swear words, and how and when to use them “properly.” Until then, those words are verboten. Which means they should probably be off-limits for me and my wife too. Which is SO LAME. But it’s the only way we’ll have a leg to stand on when we come down on him for cursing.

Sure, he’s eventually going to figure out that we’re huge hypocrites about tons of things, like all parents, but he doesn’t have to know just yet.

So we’re trying. It may not be easy, but what about parenting is? My wife and I are also trying to yell less, trying to be more patient, to eat better, to watch less TV, and to do all sorts of other pointless things. Parenting is an ongoing battle that you often lose. The important part is that you care enough to give things like not swearing a shit.

I mean: a shot.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

I hate giving my kid a bath.

To start with, baths are nasty.

Women may find them relaxing, but the things that make a bath relaxing – i.e. candles; bubbles; not having a penis floating limply in front of you – are not typically things men enjoy. For us, there are no candles or bubbles; it’s just you in a shallow, lukewarm pool of filth staring at your slowly shrinking penis.

Which is why I take showers.

Unfortunately for my 2-year-old son, showering is not an option. Aside from the fact that most toddlers would slip and fall while wearing cleats on a football field, standing one barefoot on a slick surface as water bombards his face is not the ideal way to get these kids clean. So instead you fill the tub a little bit, set him down amidst a smorgasbord of distractions like toy boats and plastic sharks and styrofoamy things that stick to the wall, and watch as the only thing he actually wants to play with is an empty cup he can use to throw water all over the floor/all over you while you kneel beside him, knees on the painful tile, and attempt to trick him into looking up at the ceiling so the soap and water don’t get in his eyes.

I’ve heard rumors about babies being washed in the kitchen sink, which, sure. The keyword being “babies.” My kid is 2, and what was once the soft, innocent, porcelain skin of a newborn is now the rancid, reeking epidermis of a slowly developing biped with dried shit caked on his buttocks. So yeah, I’ll be keeping the beast away from my food-preparation area.

Regardless, I like to think I clean the kid pretty well. After two years of diaper changing I’m no longer bothered by the presence of his feces so while he can get himself pretty dirty, poop is about the filth-ceiling. Plus, since I’ve yet to encounter a BM in the bathtub, I remain totally nonplussed by that side of things. It’s the other side of things that plusses me.

Dude, it’s just a bath

Obviously this is my kid we’re talking about. Nothing inappropriate about a father giving his son a bath. There are no Tarzan outfits or cameos from Gordon Jump. But cleaning someone else’s privates is not an easy thing to get used to, especially a child’s. I’m uncomfortable even writing about this. It reminds me of that scene from Big Daddy, wherein Adam Sandler steals an idiot child and proceeds to destroy any hope for said child’s development. At one point Sandler is giving the kid a bath but makes sure he wears a bathing suit because “[He doesn’t] know the rules.” That’s how I feel.

Somehow I manage to soldier through my son’s bath time, because god forbid he becomes the neighborhood Pig Pen. He doesn’t mind taking a one, which means I’m usually able to get the job done with little fuss. I wash his hair, I clean between his folds and his fingers and toes, and behind his ears; it’s all very routine. Then I splash water in and around my son’s crotch without looking or touching, just to cover all the bases, before getting him out and wrapping him up in his monkey towel, which is when it all pays off.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried. Bath time photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

This weekend marks the unofficial end of summer, and that means the season of returning back to school has begun. You’re probably knee-deep in it already, as New York City is kind of late to the game every year.

It’s finally time to say goodbye to leisurely mornings in which I don’t have to scream at my son to put his shoes on and then sprint to the bus stop. Of course, as my son enters the second grade, I have much bigger concerns than getting out of the house on time.

But first, let’s not pretend the kids going back to school doesn’t have its perks. For one thing, the kids are gone! They’re finally being attended to by someone else for the bulk of the day. Huzzah! Plus, they’re learning things! Although that’s a double-edged sword, as you’ll see:

Back To School Worries for You

• The Drop-off Line – The drop-off gauntlet has insanely complicated rules and insanely power-mad monitors. When combined, this  causes massive stress at best and road rage at worst, not to mention I hardly have time to do my makeup so I look like a hot mess in front of those asshole “together” moms who apparently have both Gwyneth Paltrow’s money and Gwyneth Paltrow’s vanity.
• Unvaccinated Kids – GET. YOUR. HEAD. OUT. OF. YOUR. ASS.
• Knowledge Is Power – The more information my son acquires, the more equipped he is to fight back against me and his mom, whether he suddenly knows when we’re lying, or he realizes I don’t actually know everything, or he learns how to make pipe bombs. Kids that know things are a huge hassle; the more he learns, the more formidable an opponent he becomes! Stupid kids are so much better!
• School Supplies – We’ve all seen the parents bemoaning the cost of school supplies, which, sure, it’s annoying. But I saw one mom talking about spending $300 per kid. Hahaha, yeah right. That sounds less like a BTS problem and more like a “I had to get my kids the best of everything” problem. My kid’s getting pre-chewed pencils and last year’s ratty R2-D2 backpack. I’m saving my money for all the beer I’ll be drinking while I try to help with homework.
• Bullies – Hopefully that ratty backpack won’t be an invitation to bullies, who inexplicably still exist (thanks, Trump!). I hope my son can dodge the bully bullet because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about it.
• Common Core – I get Common Core. I understand the methodology behind it, and why it’s useful. But when I went to school, it wasn’t a thing, and I don’t know how it works, and therefore I am unable to help my kid with his homework. Which is good for me, and bad for him.
• Birthday Parties – The obligation parents have to invite every single kid in class to their kids’ birthdays is the worst. Not only do I not want to have to throw some elaborate birthday party for 50 people, I don’t want to be invited to every single birthday party that goes down from September to June. Stop being so polite! You’re ruining my life.
• Allergies – Terrifying.
• School Politics – Whether it’s arguments over bake sales or room supplies or birthday parties, controversy always springs up during the school year. Usually it’s because there are a few moms and dads with sticks up their asses. Ugh, parents are the worst. Here’s hoping I don’t need to shove anything else up there this year!

I haven’t even mentioned parent-teacher conferences or grades or field trips or sick days. And my kid is only a second grader! Something tells me my back to school list is going to get a lot longer in coming years.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried. “Back to School” photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash

I’m not that great of a parent. But sometimes my bad parenting actually works out. Some of my parenting fails are actually kind of wins!

I made a list of things I do wrong as a parent that actually make my sons happy so who cares … besides me, 10 years from now, when my instant gratification policy has turned them both into monsters.

My Nine Best Parenting Fails

• Co-sleeping – Sometimes it’s by choice, sometimes it’s because I can’t be bothered to bring him back to his room. But my 5-year-old loves it, and assuming that he grows out of it before he’s say, fifteen, I’m not too concerned.
• Skipping the bath – I hate bath time. My 5-year-old hates it, too. Well, he hates getting in it, but then he also hates getting out of it, because 5-year-olds are INSANE. Sometimes I wish kids could shed their skin like snakes.
• Giving in to snack requests – Sometimes you just need them to shut up.
• Swearing – I don’t swear in front of my kids anywhere near as much as my wife does, but it happens. It’s not too big a deal, or at least it won’t be until he throws down an F-bomb at school. But so long as we stress that swears are “adult words,” it’s no harm, no foul. (This is what I keep telling myself.)
• Giving in to dessert requests – Sometimes you just need them to shut up.
• Showing them inappropriate movies – Sometimes you just need them to shut up. And you’ve run out of animated movies. And you’re desperate to watch something you actually enjoy. And you’re desperate to show them something you love. When I was a kid, I saw a lot of movies that would be deemed inappropriate today, and I turned out totally fine SHUT UP.
• Giving in to screen-time requests – Sometimes you just need them to shut up.
• Taking them to bars – Half of our weekend is spent at bars, and since we’re good people who love our children and who can’t afford babysitters, we bring them along! Not to dive bars, but to beer gardens, and breweries, and pubs. In Brooklyn, this is not out of the ordinary. In fact, it’s one of the best parts! Last weekend, we went to Threes Brewing for lunch and our son was like the eighth baby in there. Detective Munch constantly asks to go to our favorite beer garden – where he and his friends play in the dirt along tons of other children while me and my friends drink craft beers – and often requests a visit to another favorite bar because he loves their burgers. Come football season, every Sunday will be a funday, for me and my kids! America FTW!
• Skipping teeth-brushing – They’re still baby teeth, he’ll be fine. Besides, I’m drunk.

Most of these parenting fails are not really going to impact my kids negatively, except maybe that last one because — yikes — that breath is rank. In fact, most of it makes them happy. And it makes me happy. So I have no guilt over it.

Yet.

A version of this first ran on Dad and Buried. Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

I’m not one for jewelry.

I don’t wear a necklace, and I definitely don’t wear any bracelets. I don’t wear a watch or a Fitbit; I never even wore a LiveStrong band. I keep it simple. Beauty like this doesn’t need adornments!

But I’ve been wearing a rubber band on my wrist for a little while now. It’s not a fashion statement; it’s a reminder. It’s a reminder that I am too hard on my 7-year-old.

It’s a reminder that I yell too much. That I say “no” too much. That I lose my patience with him too frequently and I scold him too often and I don’t cut him enough slack.

It’s a reminder that he’s only 7 years old. That he’s still just a little boy. That he’s still learning about the world, about himself, about me, and that most of the stuff he does that drives me crazy is the same stuff other little boys do.

It’s a reminder that he’s still adjusting to having a little brother, to sharing his toys, his home, even his parents.

And it’s a reminder that I’m only human myself! That I’m still learning about the world, about myself, about my 7-year-old and his little brother, and about being a good parent.

I’m not a perfect person, and I’m definitely not a perfect father. I make as many mistakes as my kids do, despite the fact that I have a good thirty-five years more experience.

The rubber band helps me remember that, and helps me remember that that’s okay, that parenting is a process, that it’s okay to get some things wrong, so long as you keep trying and you learn from those mistakes.

It’s a reminder that I need to do better, that I need to keep my voice down, that I need to stay calm for longer, that I need to say yes more often.

It’s a reminder that I don’t want my kids to grow up scared of their dad, or to think of me as the “grumpy” parent.

The idea behind the rubber band is that when I catch myself forgetting those things, when I find myself engaging in my bad parenting habits, forgetting to be patient and understanding with my kids, I pull it back and give myself a flick on the wrist. It’s supposed to act as a deterrent.

I’m sure this isn’t an original idea, but I don’t think that matters. It’s new to me, and I feel like I need it.

As someone who is loath to take advice from other parents and who openly disdains the idea of parenting experts, it’s not just a reminder. It’s also an acknowledgment that you don’t have to know everything to realize that you don’t know everything.

Thankfully, I haven’t had to flick my wrist much so far. Not because I haven’t screwed up, quite the contrary. But in the week that I’ve been wearing the rubber band, just its presence has been enough to keep me mindful of my parenting, and my relationship with my children, and of the kind of dad I want to be.

Besides, every once in a while it snags an arm hair and wow, that’s painful in itself!

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried. Rubber band photo: druid labs on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA.