Editor’s Note: We’ve been reviewing the 14 years of content compiled on this site to uncover some parenting pearls of wisdom that need to be rediscovered. This post about mastering certain parenting concepts was originally published in October 2010.

The recent at-home dads’ convention in Omaha, Neb., was chock full of content. One workshop inspired me the most, though — the feature presentation by Dr. Frank E. Bowers, a supervising psychologist at the Boys Town Behavioral Health Clinic, part of Boys Town Community Support Services in Nebraska, on “the most important job in the world,” fatherhood.

During Bower’s introduction, the audience was told we would “discover why the role of fatherhood is so critical to the success of our children and what we can do better at our job.” OK, you had me hooked!

This thought-provoking presentation revolved around the Top 10 Parenting Concepts to Remember. I will add that these concepts are just as appropriate for moms as well as dads. In fact, I would not be surprised if this passionate speaker, completes a similar inspirational presentation frequently to mothers groups.

Bowers describes the goal of parenting as “safe passage from birth to adulthood.”

So, let’s get down to the Top 10 Parenting Concepts:

1. Adult Think vs. Child Think

As parents, we need to constantly remind ourselves that we are talking to a child and they don’t think the same way we do. Their brains are not yet wired for the same logic we are. Set your behavioral expectations accordingly. Be a firm parent dad with a lot of structure.

2. Emotional Parenting (E-Line) vs. Purposeful Parenting (P-Line)

The aim here (without displaying the line graph) is that as parents we should work hard at hovering close to the “P” line — purposeful, powerful and proactive parenting — rather than hovering on the Emotional “E” line. This will result in a lot more “time in” with our kids than dealing with “time out.”

3. The Secret To Parenting…

The secret is to give our children what they want when they give you the behaviors you want. What do your children want the most? Your attention!

4. How We Learn?

A. Repetition – think about how you learned your multiplication tables.
B. Contrast – think 98.6 degrees vs. 350 degrees
Rule: The greater the contrast, the fewer repetitions needed.

The lesson from touching a hot stove (350 degrees) vs. touching another person (98.6 degrees) requires a lot less repetition to be learned. Therefore, you might have to keep telling your toddler to stop hitting other kids over and over again (lots of repetition). If you ever say to tell your child, “How many times do I have to tell you” … well, the answer is “at least one more time.”

5. Kids Want Structure

They won’t tell you this, but it helps tremendously.

6. Discipline is the Goal

Discipline helps create better behavior in the future. It is NOT punishment, which can be retroactive. Teaching self-discipline is key. For example, you cut your kid’s meat into small pieces so they can eat it with the hopes of modeling so one day they can cut their own food.

7. Set Them Up for Success

•  Provide adequate structure.
• Don’t “invite” them to lie. If you know they took a cookie from the jar, don’t ask them if they took the cookie when you already know the answer.
•  Make expectations developmentally appropriate.

8. Catch Them Being Good!

This one really resonated with me. We are constantly watching for negative behavior so we can pounce on it and correct it.  We should spend more time praising the behavior we want from our children. Therefore, give our kids more attention when acting appropriately than when doing something we disapprove of.

9. Be a Good Role Model

“A lesson is caught more than taught!” The example Bowers used was paying for a movie with your 13-year-old. If the price is lower for ages 12 and under and you tell your kids to say, “I am only 12” to save some cash, you are basically teaching your kid to cheat.

10. Enjoy Your Children

Every stage has its ups and downs.  At least I am on target with this concept — we are having a blast!

Some final food for thought:

• If you argue with your kids, you lose!  You bring yourself to a peer-to-peer level instead of parent-to-child dynamic.
• Sail on the high “SEAS” of parenting: consistent-sea (consistency) and persistent-sea (persistency)

You might think many of these concepts are common sense, but once you reflect a bit on your parenting style, there is plenty here to digest and improve upon. Now, I need to sign off and figure out how to parent closer to the “P” line so I don’t get so emotional and bent out of shape.

Photo: © anoushkatoronto / Adobe Stock.

At my house, we are preparing to break the spell over one of the first deceptions we perpetrated on our children. That is correct, we are bracing to break the news about The Santa Claus Lie.

It is a moment I feel a little apprehensive about. That moment when one or both of my kids ask us if Santa is real and expect a real answer from us.

I know I shouldn’t feel worried. This is a rite of passage most Western kids experience. I know because I did and I still love the Christmas season, and I had no hesitation perpetuating the myth when it was my turn to do so.

However, when I step back for a moment and look at what is happening I am encouraged. The story we told them as kids has turned into more of a mystery and less of a deception, just as it did for us all those years ago.

As it stands right now, when they broach the subject we respond with questions like: “Well, what do you think?” or “Who do you think ate the cookies you left?” We keep waiting to see where the line of questioning goes. Every time one of them asks, we’ve seen them probe a little further. Sometimes they pause and you can see their minds at work. Other times they begin to lay their case out with the clues they have amassed. Like when my youngest noticed that the wrapping paper Santa used matched the paper we had been using. Or when my oldest had to discount the validity of shopping mall Santas because there were just too many of them for them all to be real.

I remember putting the clues together and figuring it out long before I was ready to admit to my parents I knew about the Santa Claus Lie. There was a window of time when I knew what was true, but wasn’t ready to give up the magic. If my kids are there now I’m more than happy to let them hold on to that magic for as long as they want or need to.

For the time being it is a fascinating experience to watch their growing minds work. Sifting the evidence uncovering the clues. Their critical thinking skills work at a problem that they will eventually solve. When they discover the inconsistencies we let them ponder them, because a great mystery is fun to solve.

We don’t try to sell it anymore that time has long passed, it is a waiting game now. We play along as they play along, and soon (sooner than we are probably ready for), they will lay out their case and we will celebrate their discovery with them.

We will congratulate them on their thinking and reward them with the truth that the rest of us know. And with that welcome them into the next stage of life. We will find new ways to celebrate this holiday season together. Ways that don’t forget the myth that made Christmas Eve a magical part of our childhood, but that celebrate it in a new way with fond remembrance of our treasured youth.

A version of this post originally appeared on The Good Men Project. Photo: ©khosrork / Adobe Stock.

Like most parents, I aim to be truthful with my kids. Truth and honesty are fundamental values in society, and obvious bedrocks for children. But what should one do with the truth about Santa Claus?

When my son entered the “why” phase around age 3, I started overloading him with facts. This was the easiest way to deal with a barrage of unending questions. When he found our wine cork screw I told him quite truthfully that his mom and dad sometimes enjoy drinking rotten grapes. We put rotten grapes in special bottles that have a special opener. All true. He’s convinced grownups are weird. Maybe he’s right.

By the time he turned 5, the whys most clearly articulated themselves before the daily drop offs at kindergarten. One day he began with the age-old, “Why is the sky blue?” and “Why can I see the moon in day?” Both have simple answers, but to stem the flow I decided to go rather detailed in my explanation of astrophysics, ending with gravitational theory and temporal mechanics. I’d just started to touch on string theory when he climbed out, and needless to say, he’d stopped asking questions. Nothing I said was false. Truths all the way.

Yet, the holiday season begs a big question. Is it sometimes OK to lie especially when it comes to the truth about Santa?

Like many parents, I’ve been talking a lot about a fat man in red who’s supposedly monitoring my kids 24/7, judging whether they’re naughty or nice, making them gifts, and planning to break into our house sometime after they go to sleep on Christmas Eve. It’s a weird lie, one some experts say is damaging to children in the long run. And forget overloading the kids with truth on this one because the more the kid digs, the more parents scramble to keep the “magic” alive.

Before the whys, I used to walk through the forest with my son, pointing out dragon tracks and spots where they lay eggs. We used to search for the footprints of giants and the remnants of ogres. As a fantasy author, I’ve no qualms blending magic and reality in order to encourage imagination. Yet, by the time my son reached his fifth birthday, he started asking point blank which things were real and which weren’t. I did my best to explain the concept of myths and fantasy. He now realizes dragons and Pokemon are fiction (a year earlier he’d been convinced the Pokemon went extinct during the same event that ended the dinosaurs). However, he still enjoys pretending to hunt for them.

Why then, am I so reluctant to puncture the Santa myth? Why am I getting money ready from the Tooth Fairy? Why am I hiding Easter baskets, supposedly to be delivered by a giant bunny?

I recall believing quite fervently in Santa as a kid. Then one year my parents packed the car to visit my grandparents in New York. On the top of our station wagon were several long parcels, rather “ski shaped” for lack of a better term. And that year, Santa just happened to give us skis. Yup, that’s when I learned the truth about Santa. It’s a sort of rite of passage in our culture, like learning to drive. And for a long time, that was that. Santa was fake, my parents lied, and I was past that phase.

Then I had kids of my own. All the holidays took on new meanings. Holidays as a parent are a chance to relive that magic, and watch that excitement in your children’s eyes. My wife and I talked about Santa. Did we want to go along with the communal lie? Did we want to tell him early on? And what would that do to his friends? If we drew back the veil on Santa for our son, would he then tell all the other kids? Were we robbing others of happiness? Of that innocence? What would we really gain from the truth in this case?

We’ve seen constant crises these past few years: a global pandemic, climate change, political upheaval, racial reckonings and more. We’ve also seen the power of misinformation. We’ve seen that when different parties can’t agree on simple truths that society suffers. Are we setting our kids up to continue this struggle by perpetuating this false Santa narrative, one we know to be untrue?

I don’t have any answers. Yet, my gut tells me maybe it is OK to lie. Childhood is a magical time. A time where the world is good, and a magical fat guy really will reward you for good behavior. Where losing a tooth means a fairy will sneak under your pillow, or a bunny will leave you chocolate. It’s a time where the dragons in the forest, and even the Pokemon, are still alive, just hiding. My daughter, who is a bit younger and hasn’t asked about myths, has been encouraged to look up for flying dragons. I’ll let those dragons hide. Let’s allow them to be real.

The truth about Santa will come out and the magic will fade, as it always does. That doesn’t give the magic any less worth.

Photo: © deagreez / Adobe Stock.

I had many jobs before a got married and become a dad. One of the more interesting ones involved working at a pawn shop during college. Back then, at the age of 21, I had no idea how much the job of pawnbroker would prepare me for the job of parenting.

To start with, the pawn shop taught me was how to spot a liar. A liar will tell you his item works perfectly while pieces of it are literally falling off as he speaks. A child will tell you he isn’t responsible for the green footprints on the floor even though he just so happens to have green paint all over his hands … and cheeks … and feet. Pawn customers will swear the mini fridge they’re trying to sell belongs to them, even though it has the words “Rent-A-Center” written in marker on every side. A child will promise she didn’t sneak a bite of cake even though there’s icing on her nose and chin.

Working at a pawn shop also taught me how to give lowball offers. For example, I would offer a customer $15 for a TV worth $60. In the same way, I would tell my kids if they pick up 175 pine cones from our yard, I’ll give them $1.75. This experience in giving lowball offers led to the skill I learned to use the most in parenting – negotiation.

Before becoming a parent, I had no idea how much of my day I’d spend in the art of negotiation. How much dinner has to be eaten, when bedtime is, whether to buy gum at the store, time allowed on iPads at home, how long friends can stay over … it all involves negotiation.

I guess all those weekend shifts wearing my denim shirt and tie eventually paid off.

A version of this post first appeared on Indy’s Child. Photo: © paul crudgington/EyeEm / Adobe Stock.

So much of my parenting style centers on a delicate balance of fact versus fiction when explaining concepts, ideas, thoughts, feelings – just about anything – to my children.

Example 1: “Dad, why is Mommy sad?” 

Fact: Daddy was a big jerk to Mommy after she had a tough day at the office.

Fiction: “Mommy’s not sad, sweetie, just tired today.”

Example 2: “Dad, why is my teacher so mean?” 

Fact: Ms. Smith is a lonely, unhappy soul whose only friends are her 12 cats.

Fiction: “Ms. Smith isn’t mean. Like her or not, she’s the boss in class so you must figure out how to work with her.”

And the ultimate, fact/fiction question parents will face during the holidays:

Example 3: “Dad, is Santa real?”

When answering these questions from my kids, fact and fiction are never at an equilibrium – EVER. Some situations require more facts, some none.  With Example 1 above, I’d err on the side of fact. On Number 2, I’d go with a more fictional slant on the truth.

The Santa questions? I go with HEAVY fiction at varying levels based on age of child. The younger the kid, the higher chance of nonsensical fiction.

Just when I think I have this fact versus fiction concept mastered, a global pandemic has me fielding queries from my children that I never could have dreamed of. I have to find answers to questions that I do not know, have not thought about, and, worse, provide responses that do not adversely impact their health.

The COVID-related issues they worry about lie in the new realities they are facing. They wonder about important, deep COVID-related issues like why a friend’s grandparent has passed. I field questions about why they can’t have a birthday party this year. My youngest kids actively wonder what their teacher’s face looks like.

Suddenly, I find myself struggling with my fact/fiction balance. How many facts do my kids require about COVID and their relative safety from it? These questions, in fact, have not taken a holiday break. They’ve actually gotten even more intricate.

My daughter’s latest query: Will Santa get COVID?

She was genuinely worried, so my fact versus fiction had to be on point. I called in the big guy himself to deliver the facts – thinking the jolliest of all holiday season characters might be able to take the edge off sobering realities of Christmas 2020:

Dear Emersyn,

Thank you for writing me. Like many other good boys and girls around the world, your concern for my health during this unsettling year warms my heart. There is no greater display of the Christmas Spirit than caring for the people you love. 

I’m happy to report that Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, and I are healthy and safely readying for Christmas. This year, in fact, shows me just how very important Christmas is. 

At the North Pole, we feel the energy of the world – your happiness and, yes, sorrow, too. During most years, the smiles and good cheer sent our way is as plentiful as the marshmallows in my hot cocoa, or as the cookie crumbs stuck to my red suit on Christmas Eve (don’t tell Mrs. Claus – I’m supposed to be on a diet).

This year is different. There is more sadness now. But that does not mean there is not as much happiness.

You and I are healthy, but some of our neighbors are not. My elves and I still have our important jobs to tend to, but many workers around you have fallen on hard times. You’ve noticed that seeing your friend’s smile is difficult behind masks. You may have relatives who did not survive a tussle with this awful COVID virus. 

These are the people I think about as I prepare to take flight with my reindeer in a few days. There are no more powerful forces than hope, spirit and faith – and no better symbol of them than Christmas. 

Rest safely knowing that I am well and ready to deliver the best Christmas EVER. Maybe it is time for the North Pole to share some of the emboldening Christmas spirit that we’ve enjoyed taking in for so many years from you.

See you very soon.

Love,

Santa Claus

PS: Please leave cookies for me and celery for the reindeer (but, if Mrs. Claus asks, we’ll say the opposite)

+  +  +

This exercise has reintroduced me to something I’d forgotten – talking to my kids is not about the quality of content I present or the fidelity of the stories I tell them. It is about the comfort they feel with my answer. My mastery of the fact versus fiction of parenting explanations, alas, pales in comparison to the smile I can earn from the use of either.

Photo: © Brastock Images / 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.

My kids are generally quite honest. This is good because they are incredibly inept at lying.

A prime example comes in the form of my son when it comes to brushing his teeth. Or rather, not brushing them.

If he has cleaned his crooked off-whites, it’s all sweetness and chubby angelic cheeks and here, Daddio — have a whiff of my minty Colgate breath.

If he hasn’t, he’ll lie right to your face, providing your face is floating somewhere up near the ceiling because that is where his eyes roll up toward when he lets the bull fly.

“Let me smell your breath,” I’ll ask.

“Maahh! You don’t believe me! Waaaaaaah!”

“If you brushed, then let me get a snootful of that fluoridey freshness.”

“Meanie!” he said.

“Dude, I felt the toothbrush and it’s not wet. It’s been three days since the bathroom was cleaned, yet the sink contains not a single glob of blue goo. And I marked the level of the anti-cavity rinse in the bottle with a Sharpie this morning and — boo-yah — it’s unchanged.”

“You HATE me!”

For a kid who has had four cavities fixed by age 7, he’s unusually stubborn about this. He’s also unusually oblivious.

A lesson on lying

This is not the first time I’ve laid out how I compile all the evidence against him when he tries to fib his way out of brushing. Why doesn’t he learn from these calling-outs about his lying? Seriously, he could just run the toothbrush under the water, put a dab of toothpaste on his tongue and a mess more in the sink, and then dump a little mouth rinse out?

I think it’s because deep down, he’s morally good and grounded. He’s also somewhat lazy.

What’s a dad to do with a lad who refuses to practice good oral hygiene even though said lad maintains a diet based on all the major members of the -ose family: glucose, fructose, dextrose, etc.?

I’ve tried reward charts, punishments, electric toothbrushes, musical toothbrushes, toothbrushes shaped like fire trucks, toothpaste featuring cartoon characters, toothpaste endorsed by TV stars — you know, everything a good American would try except standing there and actually watching him brush because that would make me a helicopter parent and kids needs to learn responsibility. Also, I’m somewhat lazy.

After one recent argument with him over his failure to brush and greater failure to lie convincingly, I rhetorically asked:

“What do I have to do to get you to brush your teeth?”

Since rhetoric, like penmanship, is not part of the school curriculum in our town, he had an answer.

“Drop your pants,” he said.

So I did.

I did as graceful a “half monty” as a desperate dad could muster. Thankfully, I had put on a pair of relatively new pair of boxer briefs that day and the elastic held tight to my waist.

And no sooner did the pants hit the floor did the boy scurry up the stairs, twist on the tap and begin to brush.

Whoa.

Maybe I’m on to something here?

Next, I will attempt to resolve the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

For that, though, I may need a wax job.

A version of this previously appeared on Always Home and Uncool.

“You have to trust the other drivers,” my father said gently.

With those words, my fingers loosened on the wheel, my shoulders relaxed, and my eyes refocused on the right side of the road.

I was 16 and about to take a driver’s ed class, but my father and I thought it might help to practice beforehand. (My mother wanted no part of it.) For many teens, it would have been time to cue the father-son tension. But my father had always been laid-back and hands-off, so I did not dread driving with him.

Even though this was his sixth time teaching driving to a nervous teenager (I am the youngest of our large brood), he was still filled with patience as he sat there in the passenger seat. Or maybe my older siblings had already run over his last nerve. His calmness is even more remarkable to me now, as I have just two children but often reach for my white flag of surrender.

To my surprise, what first troubled me as a new driver was the sight of oncoming cars in the left lane. How could I be sure they weren’t going to cross the yellow line and kill us instantly? Sensing my concern, my father uttered his simple words about trust.

It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment how much the world runs on trust — e.g., that people will act responsibly, that our hearts won’t stop beating, that buildings won’t collapse, and that the sun will rise and set, among other so-called certainties. In fact, without a basic faith in the workings of the universe, how could we even get out of bed every morning?

Trust the universe, yourself

My father’s constant ability to trust the universe was modeled in many other ways. For example, whenever my siblings or I were sick, he would place his hands on our foreheads and quietly talk about how some cultures believe we have “healing power” if we think positive thoughts as we lay hands upon an ailing body. (In the meantime, our mother gave us medicine.) As you might expect, my siblings and I would sometimes snicker at “the healing power,” but we all secretly savored the feeling of being loved in such a palpable way.

Similar to the healing power technique, my father would often extol the benefits of creative visualization to calm one’s nerves. If we were fretting about getting a large homework project finished, he would say: “Visualize in great detail the moment of handing the project in to your teacher.” The theory is that by visualizing success, you help bring it into being. (I realize now it was also my parents’ way of saying “you can do it, and we’re not going to do it for you.”)

I can’t guarantee the visualization method works, but I always seemed to get those projects done while feeling supported in the process. It has also given me a tool to use when my own children are struggling with a school deadline.

Granted, as adults we know the world often falls short of our trusting expectations. Some illnesses don’t heal, some work goes undone, and certainly some drivers prove to be untrustworthy. Indeed, my driver’s ed instructor taught “defensive driving” and emphasized the opposite of my father’s advice about trust. And that was long before road rage had a name and hyped-up media coverage. (I should add that my mother’s mantra for driving was “everybody’s crazy, drive safely.”)

Looking back, however, I believe my father’s repeated emphasis on invisible phenomena like trust, healing and visualization had a cumulative effect on my mental and emotional health as I grew up. In a sense, he helped me build a world of trust, to swim in a sea of faith. As I parent my own children, I strive for my family to swim in the same waters. Especially when it’s my turn to help my daughter with her driver’s ed practice.

Editor’s Note: The Baseball Writers’ Association of America announced the results of its annual Baseball Hall of Fame election two weeks ago, stirring the debate about whether players linked to steroid use should receive this highest honor. Writer Carter Gaddis cast one of the 440 ballots in that most recent election. 

I used to daydream about meandering through the Baseball Hall of Fame with my sons. I tell them that as an honorary lifetime member of the BBWAA and a Hall of Fame voter, I proudly played a small role in helping to commemorate the history of the game.

Now and then in this daydream, the boys and I pause and read the bronze plaques of the players who earned my vote. I tell them about watching Rickey Henderson steal bases; about witnessing Greg Maddux bewitch batters; about Ken Griffey Jr.’s backward cap and his contagious smile.

At some point during this little Norman Rockwell painting of a baseball dad’s dream, I take a minute to explain that even though the players they see enshrined in Cooperstown earned it, the Hall of Fame was incomplete.

Some of the greatest players were missing.

Pete Rose, yes. Shoeless Joe Jackson, sure. They gambled with their legacies and lost.

But also Barry Bonds, Rafael Palmeiro, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Gary Sheffield and Roger Clemens. Imposing batters who hit many majestic home runs and an intimidating pitcher who might have been the best ever.

Champions who were as exciting to watch as any players of any era. Baseball players who dominated the game during their careers.

Then I tell my sons: I did not vote for any of them.

I tell them about the rule, the one that instructs Hall of Fame voters to take into account “integrity, sportsmanship, and character” of the candidates, as well as their playing records and contributions to their respective teams.

Bonds and Clemens, I explain to my sons, were tied to the illicit use of performance-enhancing drugs, which in the opinions of many observers tainted these great players’ historic achievements. The other four also were implicated in PED use to varying degrees.

It all sounds so logical in my head. In my vision, I have all the answers.

But the idyll is shattered when, like a needle scratching a vinyl record, my sons say to me in unison, “So what?”

To this, I have no answer.

Character matters

The question is what the current debate about Hall of Fame voting comes down to: So what? Why do “integrity, sportsmanship, and character” matter in a candidate for the Hall of Fame, besides the fact that an archaic stipulation written generations ago says those qualities must be taken into account?

For my part, I take the privilege of voting seriously. I conduct thorough research, and then make my decisions based on the best information available. I trust my experience and, ultimately, my instinct.

Voters (including me) have hemmed and hawed and given reasons why and why not, and excoriated fellow voters for naked hubris or ignorance. The public (and many voters) have decried the process.

Who are we to say Bonds and Clemens are not Hall of Fame worthy?

Well, we’re members of the BBWAA, and the responsibility was offered and accepted long ago. I do it because I care about the game, and because I was asked to do it.

That is a debate for another time, another place.

I write this now as a father, a father who happens to also be one of the privileged few to cast a ballot for the Baseball Hall of Fame. As with every role I play in life, my status as a voter is linked to and influenced by the most important role I will ever play.

Dad.

Let me be clear – the moral and ethical ambiguity of Baseball Hall of Fame voting is child’s play compared to the daily challenge of parenthood.

The parenting decisions I make every day, the lessons I try to impart, the love I share, the example I try to set for my sons … in these things and all else, integrity, sportsmanship and character matter. I don’t need a written rule to tell me that.

I want so much for there to be a correlation between my stance as a voter on Bonds, Clemens, et al, and my role as a father. I want to be able to point to those players and say to my sons, “See? This is what happens when you cheat, when you take shortcuts in life. We must live with the consequences of our actions.”

I want to wrap this in a moral, ethical bow – an object lesson in parenting brought to you by the great game of baseball.

This isn’t that.

I’m not cynical, but I am realistic enough to know that my day-to-day responsibilities as a parent only relate to the raging debate about the qualifications of certain Hall of Fame candidates in the most tangential way. Still …

If I could script that daydream vision of Cooperstown with my sons, they would not ask why it mattered that Bonds, Clemens and the rest of the exiled greats were excluded. In the face of evidence of cheating, they would not ask me, “So what?”

Instead, they would file the fact of Bonds’ and Clemens’ absence away for future consideration, and we would move on. They would point to the bronze image of a man with a script “B” on his cap and ask: “Who is that?”

And I would say: “That’s Jackie Robinson. He changed the game in 1947, the year your grandfather was born. See what it says there?” And I point to the final sentence on his plaque:

“Displayed tremendous courage and poise in 1947
when he integrated the modern major leagues
in the face of intense adversity.”

That is true character. They would file that away, too. And we would move on.

Photo credit: Kevin McKeever