Our daughter was born two weeks late. I remember going into the hospital nursery and thinking she looked more developed than most of the babies. That’s when I concluded that this meant she would hit all her infant milestones and first-year benchmarks quicker than the rest.

I often think back on a story my dad told me from his childhood. My grandmother insisted that he was potty trained at 3 months old. When asked why, my grandmother said she would look in his crib, and, if his eyes were watery, she knew he had to go to the bathroom. A silly story, of course, but it only reveals to me how we convince ourselves how special our kids are for the “normal” things that they do.

But are children smarter because they talk earlier? Will they be more adventurous and dexterous because they walk earlier? Will they have a more developed and discerning palate if they eat earlier? If we read to them earlier will they read sooner? These questions can go on and on, but I can say that by pondering these issues too much we put undue pressure on both ourselves and on our daughter.

Infant milestones: Helpful or hurtful?

Our daughter missed some of the so-called earlier first-year benchmarks that she should have hit and those so-called failures fed into our neuroses. We questioned whether we were doing anything wrong or if there was anything wrong with our daughter.

Our doctor assured us that infant developmental milestones and benchmarks were only a guide. However, in a competitive world of “whose child was more mature and more advanced,” we were left wanting. We created a self-induced paranoia that got us worried that there was something wrong with our daughter. Were we to blame? There needed to be a reason. 

I remember when I was finally assured that to keep my sanity I should ignore those infant developmental milestones and other benchmarks. We just needed to do what we could to encourage our daughter no matter where she was in the growth process. This finally hit home at one of the dance/music/movement classes we had enrolled our daughter in.

We liked the class leader because of her ability to not only encourage and enhance the life of our daughter but also to be approachable to us as parents when questions arose. I remember the day of my “approach” like it was yesterday. Concerned our daughter was lagging because she wasn’t crawling, I went to her after class. I told her my concerns and she gave me a simple answer. She told me that when our daughter was ready to walk, talk, sing, or in our case crawl then she would do it. We should allow ourselves the peace of mind to know that our daughter would do everything at her own speed and when she was ready.

Guides, not absolutes

Sure enough, she was right. 

We continue to recognize this idea while attempting to potty train our daughter. We realized she understands the idea of going to the potty and will occasionally go; however, she just isn’t ready yet. She will tell us when that time arrives. 

I believe infant benchmarks are certainly important as guides, but that is only how we should use them. There are definite warning signs of developmental delay to be aware of. However, it is generally recommended to avoid hitting the panic button until your infant is missing milestones by several weeks. Then you should talk to your doctor.

Today, we have a child who through love and encouragement is where she is supposed to be right now. When we put pressure on ourselves to follow those benchmarks as the rule of law, disappointment and doubts in our ability as parents were too often the result. There was so much more nuance to raising our daughter. Instead of paying attention to where she should be, we need to just enjoy her for who and where she was at every “benchmark” age. 

Take it from a convert. Save yourself the anguish and enjoy your children as they are.  The mood swings and tantrums of an almost 3-year-old will make you long for the days when they couldn’t crawl, roll over, or talk. 

About the author

Matthew Pasher is a part-time stay-at-home dad. He’s an avid reader, and a Liverpool fanatic who can make a mean mac and cheese from scratch when asked.

This article first ran in 2012 and has since been updated.

It finally happened. The most magical moment of any stay-at-home dad’s career: ALL the kids are in school!

I thought I’d be more emotional about this. I was sure I’d be filled with crippling fears and worry. Would the house feel too empty? Would I roam silent rooms, clutching my pearls (or the male equivalent), while weeping over the loss of my precious babies and yelling, “They’ve all grown up and left me!”?

OK, I did cry. Not gonna lie.

But right now I’m writing while listening to loud, offensive, very inappropriate music, and it’s magnificent!

Sometimes the measure of success as a parent is dubious at best. Most victories come in small bites. A “Yes, please,” from your kid to a stranger. A gentle hug from your oldest to the youngest, followed by some encouraging words. These are powerful at the moment, but they feel small. Isolated.

It’s not that I want the world to know just how awesome I am as a dad, but, damn it, I do want the world to know, at the very least, I don’t suck at this! So when my youngest daughter leaped out of the minivan, chatty and excited to begin her first day of school, teachers nodded approvingly, and other parents with shrieking children frowned with a smidge of jealousy, I felt I had earned my reward. They could see. They could ALL see I didn’t suck!

Most of my time as a father has been spent pondering how I would cope with these types of moments. How will I react to the pivotal developmental milestones? I fail plenty, but in preparing my children to step out of the home and be independent, I feel I’m doing OK. Encouraging independence is not my best quality. I’m a hovering helicopter parent who has had to work extremely hard to let the baby birds fly, climb, swim and leave the nest. This does not come naturally, but I know it’s important.

Teach self-sufficiency, reclaim independence

My parents weren’t the best at this either. They gave me great freedom. In fact, when I ponder some of the things I did as a kid, I’m filled with anxiety. How the hell did my mom let me disappear all day without a cell phone? Feels impossible. Although I had great fun (and found lots of trouble), my parents did everything else for me. They never pushed me to overcome my anxiety and figure the world out for myself.

My mom had her reasons for behaving this way. Her childhood was much different than mine so she focused on making sure I had a proper childhood. She and my dad succeeded greatly in this, but along the way, I wasn’t really pushed to be independent. It took me a long time and a lot of hard lessons to find my way. I’ve endeavored to amend this approach with my kids – although I should probably sprinkle in some of my mom’s free-wheeling style every now and then.

My fellow dads and parents, I want to tell you it’s OK.

It’s fine to revel in the blessed silence.

It’s OK to get some of your independence back.

It’s fine to reclaim some of your life that was lost when the kids came around.

No, you’ll never be the same, but that’s a good thing. Kids change us forever in all the best ways. They are the adorable fiery cauldron that refine us into the people we could have never become without them.

So as they assert themselves into their own entities capable of existing without you, even if just for a few hours a day, it’s OK to chase after some of the old life you left behind. Give yourself permission. You’ll feel better.

But you better do it soon. Those little monsters will need to be picked up in a few hours, and that school car pickup line is a bitch.

Reclaim your life photo: © Maria Sbytova / Adobe Stock.

The text from my dad arrived around mid-morning, the time of day when I’m usually just settled in at work and inundated with emails and meeting invites.

As I read his message, my already busy morning became more complicated. He wrote that my mom was taking him to the hospital because he wasn’t feeling well. This was the latest in a series of health issues he’d been dealing with the last few months. While it thankfully hadn’t reached a life-threatening level, the frequency of the trips to the doctor had become concerning.

I’d be lying if I said my first response wasn’t a “shaking of the head, here we go again” feeling. After all, one of the things my dad taught me when I was younger that has most certainly proven to be true as I’ve become a man is this: There’s always something. There’s always something that comes up in your day-to-day life that wasn’t on your radar or in the plans. That’s life.

It’s also life when you’re faced with an important choice and not sure how to decide. Naturally, I was concerned about my dad and his well-being. At the same time, I had my own responsibilities as a dad I needed to be present for. If I made the roughly 90-mile drive to the hospital, my son would be disappointed I couldn’t take him to basketball practice. And if I ended up having to stay for a couple of days to look after my dad and help my mom out, my wife would have her hands full with both kids.

On the flip side, if I didn’t go to the hospital, what would my dad think? Would he be disappointed in me for not showing up for him like he’s done for me my entire life? Would my mom, who was already a nervous wreck, be able to answer the doctor’s questions? I had just visited him in the hospital when he was there a few weeks before this latest incident. That has to count for something, right?

Burden of the sandwich generation

This is a common dilemma of the approximately 25% of Americans like me in the “sandwich generation.” We are adults with at least one parent alive, age 65 or older, also raising at least one child younger than 18 (or providing financial support to an adult child). Being torn between young and old family members, in addition to work and other obligations, adds emotional, financial and physical strain to parenting. Luckily, for me, COVID-19 and the recession have not complicated our situation as much as it has for others.

I ultimately decided not to go. I managed to take care of everything I needed to do at home while checking in with my mom seemingly every 30 minutes about my dad’s condition.

However, that didn’t erase the guilt I felt. It ate at me the entire time my dad was in the hospital. My mind was telling me I should’ve gone. I was praying everything would work out because if it didn’t, I’d be kicking myself for not being there. Conversely, I was glad I stayed home. Had I missed my son’s practice, the other side of the guilt spectrum would’ve eaten at me as well.

As I continue to adjust to dealing with aging parents, one thing I didn’t factor into that dynamic was the guilt I would experience when faced with having to choose between my current responsibilities as a dad with being there to care for my own dad as he ages. I don’t want to shortchange either. I want to be able to give equally to my son and daughter, as well as my dad. That’s not realistic, I know, but the guilt I feel is not fair to me.

Just as my dad warned me about dealing with the unexpected, I hope to be able to help my kids not beat themselves up when they have to make tough decisions, especially when their hearts are in the right place. But that’s life.

Tips for those caught in between

If sandwich generation stresses are getting to you, here’s some advice for coping from professionals:

From the American Psychological Association:

• Maintain perspective: Prioritize and delegate responsibilities. Delay or say no to less important tasks. Find ways family and friends can lessen your load.
• Find healthy ways to manage stress: Are your coping mechanisms unhealthy (alcohol, drugs, junk food)? Consider healthy, stress-reducing activities — taking a relaxing bath or shower, exercising or talking things out with friends or family.
• Practice self-care: Always make time for yourself so you have the mental and physical energy to care for your parents and children. Eat right, get enough sleep, drink plenty of water, and engage in regular physical and social activity. Maintain contact with friends and other family members.
• Ask for professional support: If you still feel overwhelmed or unhealthy behaviors start dominating your “me time,” you may want to seek a psychologist or other health care professional.

From Senior Living.org:

• Agree to set financial boundaries to help parents or adult children.
• Consider having aging parents move in with you to lower expenses.
• Look into investing in a medical alert system to monitor your aging parent.
• Think about hiring in-home senior care for your parents.
• Consider using identity theft protection services to prevent seniors from being scammed.
• Keep communication lines open with family members concerning needs, expectations, feelings and other issues.

Sandwich generation graphic: © Piscine26 / Adobe Stock.

A couple of weeks ago while on the road, I hit play on – you guessed it –  a parenting podcast. I was just casually listening at first, but then a question caught my attention. To paraphrase, a host asked, “If our kids knew us as people would they like us?”

As the hosts advanced the discussion, they talked about the fact that our kids don’t really know who we are. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just familiar faces and they’ve gotten used to us being there. It’s their job to be kids and ours to be their parents and make sure they’re taken care of. But do they know us? Our personalities? What makes us tick? Do they know how we act when we’re not in mom or dad mode?

And if they did, would they like us?

Most kids see their parents as superheroes. We are larger-than-life figures there for them. We provide for them. They depend on us from the moment they enter the world until they branch off on their own – and often well beyond that if we’re honest. We’re their safety nets. As our kids grow from toddlers to adolescents and then into young adulthood, the parent-child dynamic changes, but the fact remains that we’ll always “just” be mom or dad. And for the most part, they like that.

But the reality is they often don’t know any better. Or to put it a different way, they don’t really know us, the person.

Unfortunately, many of us don’t realize our parents are actually people until we are much older ourselves and have our own families. It is then we finally understand some of the things our parents talked about and tried to teach us growing up. The lightbulb goes off. We finally get to sit at the adult table and hear their perspective on various topics. We see how they act around others and analyze it with a different lens. It can be a confusing revelation because when we finally realize our parents are people and see them for who they are, we are faced with a dilemma of whether we like what we see.

As I wrote in a previous article, one of the many lessons learned with age is realizing the parents you idolized growing up aren’t perfect. They aren’t superheroes. They’re human. Humans with flaws, emotions, insecurities, dreams and fears of their own, just like you and I.

And you may or may not like that person.

As I continued to listen to the podcast discussion, I wondered to myself if, as a dad, I’m “likable.” If my kids knew that sometimes I’m not the best person when I’m not in dad mode, would they still like me? If they knew some of my flaws, would their faces still light up when they see me walk through the door? Maybe they’ll be like me and not realize that their dad is not “perfect” until later in life. Maybe it won’t matter then.

What I can do is be as open and honest with them about who I am. Share my life experiences with them and let them know why I made certain decisions. I hope that, especially with my son, he’s able to see me feel emotions. If I’m as transparent with my kids as possible, they may see that Dad is a real person, and maybe they’ll still like me.

Photo: © Prostock-studio / Adobe Stock.

Does hearing how others fail miserably really make us feel better about our faults or is this like a scene out of Jaws where we all compare our scars to see who has the biggest one of all? 

+   +   +

Every day we fail at parenting in some way.

It’s not mommy brain. It’s not because we are the doofus dad. Here’s an awful truth we must all face: We are human and we are going to make a ton of mistakes. Parenting is hard.

I recently sat in a meeting with other parents, mostly moms, quietly listening to them tear themselves down. They seemed to think that they qualified for “Parent of the Year” based on all the ways they had failed their children.

Her kids were up early asking for pancakes with blueberries but she was struggling just with pouring the over-sugared cereal before she had her morning coffee.

The bus was coming, another one said, and none of her children could find their shoes.

This one’s son had a big project due today that he conveniently forgot about and instead she let him play video games all day yesterday.

My parents weren’t perfect. They used to chase me around the dining room table trying to get me to swim lessons. They probably watched me flounder in the deep end, wondering if the lessons were really paying off. Well, you know what? Someone throw me a lifesaver because sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.

Perfection and parenting mix like water and oil yet we have this weird obsession with doing everything just right for our kids. We want to show up to the bake sale with homemade muffins that every kid, despite their allergies, wants to eat. We want our kids to have MIT-worthy science projects. But that is not realistic and definitely not possible.

Always wanting perfection puts this undue pressure on ourselves while also sending a message to our children that anything short of flawless is a failure. We then feel guilty when our focus isn’t completely on the kids, and channel those feelings of self-loathing into this parental superpower. It’s no wonder so many of us feel inadequate.

And, to me, saying I am the “worst parent ever” so someone else can build me up doesn’t help with my confidence. Does hearing how others fail miserably really make us feel better about our faults or is this like a scene out of Jaws where we all compare our scars to see who has the biggest one of all? The truth is, we all need a bigger boat.

We used to be so fixated on ourselves before we had kids. We were the priority. When the kids came along, we shifted that attention to them and when things don’t do completely right, we feel a sense of failure. Athletes fail and work harder to improve. Scientists experiment then go back to the drawing board. Why do we, as parents, think parenting would be any different?

We fail so we can get back up.

We fail because we are human.

We fail because “parent of the year” is an unattainable goal.

So when the kids are napping, do something for yourself for a change. Don’t feel guilty about it. Your children will show up soon enough asking  for snacks and whining about something. Binge-watch Netflix without guilt. Play video games until your eyes are bloodshot. You deserve it because no one is a perfect parent.

The whistling I hear breaks my daydreams and delusions of possibility. The whistling is a personification of the years passing me by – the proverbial winds of change. My babies are growing up – and my window of opportunity is closing.

I remember when I was 22 and a young student teacher. I completed a semester of my student teaching at my alma mater – the halls of the high school that helped mold me into the individual that I am. We had a set of senior twin boys there who talked about their father being a stay-at-home dad for the first five years of their life. I remember thinking that was unique and filed it away for when I became a dad.

Fortune provided me with an opportunity, as a school teacher, to be a seasonal stay-at-home dad. I have every summer, and every break off with the kids – which is more than many moms or dads have the opportunity to do. Yet, in the back of my head, I have always wanted the opportunity to stay home with the kids for the first five years.

‘In a matter of 20 minutes, I am alone’

This year my son started pre-K. He rides with me, and my daughter, to my school. I deposit him in his class, hug him, kiss him and wish him a great day then I drop my daughter off at the bus. In a matter of 20 minutes, I am alone, waving in the wind as it whistles at what could have been in the weeks, months and years preceding.

I don’t know if I would have been a great full-time stay-at-home dad. I don’t know if it would have made a difference. I do know there are days I lament that it never occurred, but that sour feeling is usually met, quickly, with the consolation of the summers, the memories, that we have built. The swims, bike rides, park visits, museum visits, zoo visits, picnics, walks and rainy day veg sessions – all these things stem the feeling of regret. And in that moment, I realize just how blessed I am. There is so much I get to see – so much I get to witness.

Yes, the window is closing, the future and past whistling around me. A new phase in life, fatherhood, childhood is beginning. And I am realizing something pretty important.

Even with the window closed, the view is pretty amazing.

A version of this first ran on Tales from the Poop Deck.

Parents suck. Honestly, politicians are probably the worst. And other people’s kids suck pretty bad, too. So do Nazis.

In fact, I changed my mind. I’m going to go out on a limb and say the Nazis are really the worst.

But parents still suck pretty bad. I knew it before I had a kid and it’s become even more apparent since I joined their ranks.

Here are some of the reasons why.

11 reasons parents suck

1. Their kids.
2. Their constant complaining about their ungrateful, undisciplined, un-sleeping, whiny, tantrum-throwing kids.
3. Their constant bragging about their incredibly smart kids, incredibly athletic kids or incredibly cute kids. Guess what? I was smart and athletic and cute once, too. Then I hit puberty.
4. Their constant posting on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Pinterest about their kids. There’s a reason I avoid you in real life, stop making me avoid you in fake life, too.
5. The griping about how expensive babysitters are. You know what’s not expensive? CONDOMS.
6. The constant discussions about children’s TV, music, movies and books. I used to watch that junk, too. When I was in college (read: wasted), I didn’t hold nonstop conversations about it. At least not conversations I can remember. I wish I couldn’t remember the last time you brought up how much you hate Caillou.
7. We get it: you’re tired. News flash: Everyone’s tired. It’s called 5-Hour Energy. Quit being a martyr.
8. Their breathless worrying about video games and social media and twerking and sex and violence and alcohol and concussions and peanut allergies and we’re out of hand sanitizer! I heard about this crazy thing the other day, it’s called 200,000 YEARS OF HUMAN SURVIVAL. So take it down a notch, Chicken Little. Your kids will be fine.
9. Their tax break
10. “I can’t! I have to: pick up my kid/hang out with my kid/read to my kid/feed my kid/not drink because of my kid/pretend I care all about my kid’s recital or baseball game or doctor’s appointment/use my kid as an excuse to not have fun because I’m super lame now.”
11. “I can never go to the movies! Waaaah!” You know who can go to the movies? CONDOMS.

Bonus: Their ridiculous, obnoxious, self-righteous, totally unsupportable belief that they’re a better parent than you.

A version of “Parents Suck” first appeared on Dad and Buried. Photo: 6658 Tired via photopin (license)

Scene: 8 a.m. Early summer. Daughter’s room. Sunlight glinting through drawn shades. Daughter buried under her covers. Unmoving. Father enters.

Me: Knock knock!

Her: (Silence.)

Me: Knock knock! Anybody alive in here?

Her: (Slight shifting under covers.)

Me: Goooooooood Morning! Rise and shine! It’s going to be a beautiful day! Got any plans for this beautiful summer day?

Her: (Muffled grunt.)

Me: I don’t know about you, but I want to get out there and enjoy this spectacular weather! Who’s with me?!?!?!

Her: Gorfmmmwm.

Me: What’s that? Take your pillow off your face, I can’t hear you.

Her: (Drawing pillow off face and throwing) GO AWAY, IT’S NOT MORNING YET.

Me: (Ducking) What’re you talking about, Silly Face? It’s 8 in the morning!!!

Her: I swear to God.

Me: OK, OK. You need a few minutes to wake up. I totally get it. Take your time. I can come back in a few minutes.

Her: Or never. (Collapsing back on bed.)

Scene: An hour later. Same locale.

Me: Knock knock! Take two! Goooooood morning!

Her: Frrrrkymm.

Me: Honey, I told you I can’t hear you when you have a pillow on your face.

Her: (mumbled from beneath pillow) Why do you hate me?

Me: Come on, kiddo, it’s summer. Are you just going to sleep the day away? No way! Not on my watch. Hey, I know! LET’S GO HIKING!!!

Her: No hiking. More sleeping (rolls over and attempts to burrow deeper).

Me: Hmm. You know what you need?   A hearty breakfast. Pancakes! I’ll make pancakes!!!! A big stack of pancakes is the best way to start a summer morning off right. Right?!?

Her: Yes. Go make pancakes. Take your time.

Me: Alright!!! GO TEAM PANCAKES!!!!

Scene: Another hour later. Same locale.

Me: Knock, knock! Guess what? Pancakes are ready.

Her: Not hungry.

Me: But I thought you said you wanted pancakes.

Her: I didn’t say. You said.

Me: Good point. But they’re ready! Let’s eat pancakes, and then go down to the beach and play Frisbee! Summer beach Frisbee playing!

Her: (sitting up, staring with laser eyes) Dad. When have I ever played summer beach Frisbee?

Me: You know. That one time when you were seven.

Her: Dad, I’m tired. And it’s summer.

Me: Honey, summer is not the time for sleeping.

Her: Some might argue it’s the best time for sleeping.

Me: Ooh! I know! Let’s go swimming! Wouldn’t that be cool? We haven’t gone swimming in like forever.

Her: Fine. Great. Swimming. Just let me sleep for a little while longer. Then we’ll go swimming.

Me: OK!!! YAY SWIMMING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Scene: Yet another hour later. Guess where we are?

Me: OK. Seriously, Riley. The day’s almost half over. You’re not just going to sleep all day, are you? It’s too nice out, and we have a whole day to go out and do something fun. Or at least half a day now. Come on.

Her: (sitting upright slowly) You know, some adults have hobbies. Jigsaw puzzles. Reading. You should think about taking up something.

Me: I do have a hobby. JUMPING ON YOUR BED, YAY!!!!!!!

Her: Ow! God! Stop doing that! Get off my bed!! What is wrong with you!!! Why are you doing this?

Me: Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? (Pause.) I’m doing this because I’m feeling guilty about being a bad parent.

Her: (Yawning) You’re not a bad parent.

Me: Of course, I’m a bad parent. I’m a bad parent because I didn’t plan ahead last spring like all the good parents did when they signed their kids up for summer volunteer programs, or camp counseling jobs. I was so wrapped up in my own deal that I completely neglected to give any thought to what you would need to have a fun, adventure-packed, fulfilling summer like all your friends who are training to be junior lifeguards or volunteering to clean up the beach or taking pottery classes or going to church camp or rock climbing with Outward Bound.

Her: Dad.

Me: Or spearheading a local recycling program or learning wilderness skills or leading a storytime circle for little kids at the library.

Her: Dad –

Me: Or taking horseback riding lessons or going to Mexico and building a house with those Habitat for Humanity guys or even getting together with a few friends and deciding to stage an original musical in someone’s backyard for the neighborhood.

Her: Dad, slow down.

Me: You don’t get it. The longer you stay up here and bury yourself under the covers, the more it reflects what a horrible, unorganized father I am.

Her: Oh.

Me: Yes.

Her: I’m starting to understand now.

Me: Good.

Her: This isn’t about me.

Me: No.

Her: It’s about you.

Me: Bingo.

Her: (Pausing to think.) OK. Here’s what.

Me: Here’s what what?

Her: A lot of the things you just listed, I don’t really like to do. Right?

Me: Right.

Her: And yet there are things that I do like to do. Like drawing, and reading, and listening to music, and that weekly youth group thing that you did sign me up for.

Me: Right.

Her: And I went to two birthday parties last week, proving I have basic social skills.

Me: You do.

Her: I think you’re spending a lot of your summer feeling guilty about my summer. Which seems like much more of a waste of time than me sleeping in.

Me: Huh.

Her: Why don’t we compromise? You let me sleep in now, and later I’ll …. eat the pancakes you made when it’s time for lunch.

Me: That’s not really a compro—

Her: And maybe this afternoon, we’ll go swimming.

Me: YAY!

Her: I said “maybe.” Bring it down.

Me: OK. Yay. That sounds good.

Her: Great. Awesome. Now close the door, please.

Me: OK. Do you think you’ll be coming down soon?

Her: I’ll let you know.

Summer plans photo credit: Comfyness via photopin (license)

Am I a good parent?

I’m not.

I get irritated with my son far too easily.

I’m nearly 40 and he’s under 5; our energy levels rarely match up, our stress levels never match up. I know this and yet I allow myself to get aggravated far too often. I bark at him too frequently, I lose patience with him too easily, I find myself pawning him off on his mom too much. And I take the easy way out, racing him off to bed after a long day, speeding through the bedtime story, accelerating the nightly snuggle, just to get to that glass of wine and that latest episode and relax.

These are not things a good parent does.

Do I love my son? Of course. Do I have fun with him? Do I provide for him? Do I take care of him? How dare you. I have my good moments – we all have our good moments – but the good moments are easy. And that’s why they don’t count. We all love our kids. You don’t get points for that.

As a parent, you’re only as good as your worst moments. It’s the bad moments that impact you. It’s the bad moments that make you question yourself and make you try harder. It’s the bad moments that make you a better parent, because it’s the bad moments that you worry your kids will remember, and, of course, it’s the bad moments that they always do.

The quality of your parenting is reflected in your children’s behavior. That’s your gauge; that’s the only way you can tell how you’re doing. And when you see your kids adopting your bad behavior, when you realize they’ve absorbed and internalized you at your worst, that’s when you just know you’re not a good parent. (You also know when they start wanting to be Darth Vader.)

I see my son get easily frustrated; I hear him say something cold and sarcastic; I watch him lose patience and raise his voice, I witness him snap at Mom and Buried or Uncle Rob without provocation, and I know he’s learned it from watching me. And I know I’m not doing a good job.

I see his good qualities, too. His easy laugh. His eagerness to involve others. His intense curiosity and impressive ability to see through bullshit. When he says something funny and sarcastic. I attribute most of those to his Mom, but I like to think I’m responsible for some (mostly the sarcasm). And I do have the occasional hot streak. I’ll go stretches when I’m patient and caring and compassionate and helpful and understanding and firm without being shrill and everything is hunky dory.

Then I’ll have that one slip-up and I’m back to zero again. It’s a vicious cycle. It’s soul-sucking. It’s Sisyphus. Every day. Thankfully, you do get points for trying.

Because when all is said and done, being a good parent isn’t about throwing a perfect game. Or about some unattainable, abstract standard of “good.” It’s only about being good enough. For your kids. For your family. For your conscience.

Parenting isn’t about eliminating the bad moments, it’s about reducing them. It’s about recognizing and moving past them. It’s about getting back under that boulder and pushing it up the hill again. Every day.

Am I good parent? No. But that’s a good thing.

I’m not satisfied with my performance as a father, and I hope I never am.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

Dads are starting to whisper more loudly than ever about struggling to strike a balance between work and family obligations that mothers have been talking about for years. We know this because as we are meeting up each week with groups of dads in our community – juggling career, family, and personal time – is a frequent topic of discussion.  In fact, work-life balance is a common concern with most expectant fathers that participate in our weekly Boot Camp for New Dad Workshops.  These expectant dads are asking important questions: Do other dads move to a more flexible schedule when they have children?  What are some best practices that other dads use to carve out time with their little ones during the work week?  I plan to take two weeks off when the baby is born, is that enough time? How much time should I be taking off from work for my first child? What do other dads do about reducing travel when they start a family?

Not surprisingly, increased numbers of research studies (mentioned below) are focusing on family and career struggles as well as a microscope on dads as they fit into the equation.  We try to highlight some of the current research on this site, but continually reference The Families and Work Institute national study. Some interesting findings:

• The Families and Work Institute did a national study of the workforce in 2008 and found that for the first time in history, more men reported experiencing work-life conflict than women–60 percent versus 47 percent. 
• fathers average three more hours of work per week than their childless male counterparts!
• Men with working wives felt more stress than those with a stay-at-home partner.

This week, Redbook published a relevant article, “The New Daddy Guilt,” that is based on their recent POLL, phone interviews, and drawing upon the mounds of recent research about family and work balance:

“He works! He nurtures! He’s exhausted. But today’s working dads still don’t feel they’re doing enough, well enough. Sound familiar, moms?… Dads now teeter on the tightrope of work and family obligations that moms have been walking for decades, and it’s stressing them out….In interview after interview, fathers said the same thing: If you’re not disappointing the boss, you’re disappointing the other boss–the one who just lost a tooth.”

Christopher Helman, a 38-year-old journalist from Houston, works from home, divides up parenting tasks with his wife–and clears time for fun: “Some days I’ll drop everything to play or ride bikes, and I’ll get back on my laptop after they go to bed. I remember exactly zero times that my dad or stepdad played with me on a weekday afternoon, and I think I’m closer to my kids because of that.”

Congratulations to Redbook, a magazine that has typically turned me off or sent me running in the other direction in the past with so much of its content written for mom.

With this piece, it provides such an engaging piece about the modern dad and those that love us. We hope to see more frequent articles and content geared for both involved parents in the home!