Tax Day has now come and gone. Once again, NONE of my working teens filed their taxes because I told them not to bother. With the standard deduction for single dependents nearing $1,300, I told my kids to save the time and sit this filing year out.  

Since each has started working, I have given this same advice. And, honestly, I’ve never been 100% sure that I/they are doing the right thing.

From my point of view, if my kids ultimately have $0 of tax viability (we live in Florida, so no state income tax, either) then filing to get the $20 lost does not make much sense. 

Whenever I encourage my kids to take the easy way out, I feel like I’ve short-changed a learning opportunity. 

But have I?   

Learn from the “act” of filing taxes

My father’s rule was simple: once you made $1, you filed taxes. I remember loving the time my dad spent sitting me down with the manual 1040EZ form we’d picked up from the Cedar Rapids, Iowa Public Library. I’d dutifully dice up my $500 annual earnings W2-box-by-W2-box. And, in the end, I’d get back the money I’d paid in on. It felt like a surprise bonus.    

That nostalgia had me itching to teach the same lessons to my working teens. That is until they told me filing taxes can be as simple as a few simple clicks on their phone. 

Nostalgic feeling – gone.    

Yeah, the efficiency of the internet has yielded the “act” of insisting your kids file taxes, well, meaningless and devoid of the father/kid interaction I am after.

More importantly, though, than my desire to spend more time with my teens, I began to wonder about their legal obligations for filing with the government by Tax Day.     

Do teens have to file taxes?

I was relieved to learn it is fine NOT to file a tax return if a teen’s earnings do not exceed the standard, single deduction for a dependent. In tax year 2023 (returns that are due in April 2024), that amount is around $1,300.

So, no, a teen not filing taxes is, as they’d say, “not that deep.” 

While your teen may not be required to file taxes, they can without any downside. The only possible outcome of filing at lower incomes (like those of my teens) is the opportunity to, potentially, get a refund. This would occur if they paid federal taxes in excess of their liability.  These amounts are typically small and should be weighed against the time (and possible software fees) it might take to file.

I do like the idea of enforcing the discipline of filing taxes for teens. I regret I did not have them each go through the process. It would have opened them up to conversations that may be important down the road, such as concepts like “dependents,” “standard deductions,” and “tax credits.” Through these types of chats, it may become clear how meaningful it may be to a family’s taxes to claim teens as dependents until they age out. (As of 2024, a teen can be claimed as a dependent until age 19 or 24 if a full-time student).

Filing taxes is also an opportunity to explain the importance of filing status on tax liability – and not only for them! I’ll leave those lessons until next year, I guess. 

What if my teen has only been paid in cash?

My 14-year-old daughter was only paid in cash for babysitting in 2023. It was only a small amount of money made babysitting for a select few friends. She assumed, then, that taxes did not pertain to her. To me, it was also a no-brainer to avoid filing a tax return.

Upon further review, I may have messed up.  

The IRS guidance mentions $400 cash income as the line where a teen can be characterized as “self-employed” and, therefore, subject to paying taxes. Take note: the “self-employed” designation does allow for write-offs that would reduce or eliminate their tax liability. 

So, while she could have filed, given the amounts, I’m OK with her skipping out with her brothers. 

I feel better now. We haven’t skirted the taxing authorities. My kids would say they’ve saved time and that’s a win. I would contend we delayed a lesson they will need and should understand. 

We’ll all have to pick up that lesson next Tax Day.

Teens and taxes photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich via Pexels.

During the first year of my children’s lives, if someone asked me if I was babysitting the kids, I’d brush it off. I did the same through Year Five. By Year Fifteen, I think I’m done being polite about it.

It’s such a weird thing to say to a father. Then there’s the look of sympathy in the eyes I’d get. The pity nod. We dads have all been through it.

You know, my kids are awesome. Why would I need anyone’s pity? The years I’ve spent as an at-home dad have been the best of my life. And I mean that as a guy who has been to a Super Bowl and didn’t have to pay for it. Sure, it’s been tough at times. All parenting is tough. But unlike a babysitter, I don’t get paid at the end of the night. I also don’t get a ride home in my boyfriend Chip’s bitchin’ new van. As a father, I’m never truly off the clock. Even when I’m away, I’m still a parent.

So, this year, as my daughter has turned 15, I think I’m done answering the question about babysitting the kids politely. I’ve earned that much, haven’t I? Haven’t all fathers?

So when someone asks me if I am babysitting my children, I think I’m going to use a new answer. I’ve been brainstorming, and there is a winner in here somewhere. Also, I think I may have anger issues over this.

So when I’m asked, “Are you babysitting the kids?” I’ll respond …

“Wait, I have kids? Who’s the mother? Does she know?”

“Oh, these aren’t my kids. I just picked them up at the grocery store. They were on sale.”

“Babysitting would imply that I would be getting paid. Do you have any money?”

“This one time in college I grabbed a live car battery to impress a girl. That doesn’t have anything to do with your question, but I thought we were both just saying stupid shit.”

“No, these are my pets.”

“Shh, don’t tell the cops. I don’t think they know.”

“Honey, you don’t babysit crotch goblins like these. You herd them. I’m a modern-day rancher. Hand me that shock collar, will ya?”

“I completed nine years of study at the prestigious Julliard School of Child Care, did my fieldwork under the world-renown Mary Poppins, and toured with Frozen on repeat in my minivan. Madam, if I am a simple babysitter, then you are the Queen of England!”

“Yup, just like you’re babysitting that third chin.”

“I think the laws of nature preclude me babysitting something that came out of my nut sack.”

“All those sleepless nights. All that stress during the birth. All the anxiety I carry around with me all day wondering if I have what it takes. Well, it makes it all worthwhile when someone calls me a babysitter.”

“Miss Manners once said, ‘If you can’t say something kind, say something vague.’ So, you suck. But in a vague way.”

“Out of the 15 times I’ve been asked this today, this is the one that truly touches me. Thank you — oh, thank you — for noticing how good a babysitter I am. A lot of fathers strive to be a babysitter and it’s just nice to finally reach that level of competence.”

“That’s what it says on their birth certificate. Not father. Babysitter.”

“Actually, the official term is ‘Behavior and Domestic Associate Systems Specialist.’ Or B.A.D.A.S.S. for short.”

Photo: © Olesia Bilkei / Adobe Stock.

My 5-year-old stares at me, not really comprehending what this means. Unless it’s candy or a shot to my balls, he doesn’t have much use for it. But my 11-year-old son, he knows exactly what it means and his face falls.

“Dad …” he begins.

“No,” I say. “Don’t dad me. Don’t even begin to think I’m changing this. Your mom and I are going to see a movie and your sister is babysitting.”

“But …”

“No buts.”

He looks at me hard, and his lips go tight. But then he accepts it.

My wife looks wonderful today. She smiles in a way that she did before we had children. It’s more carefree, worry lines erased from a creased brow. In jeans and a T-shirt, she has never looked so beautiful.

Budget babysitting for parental playtime

We will be gone just long enough to see a movie. We have completed some test runs like grocery store trips for 30 minutes. The house wasn’t burned down by the time we came back. But that was only for a short time, and we were no more than five minutes away. This is her first big test and it will probably be OK. At this point, I’ll take a probably.

For the last 12 years, my wife and I have hobbled together date nights on a shoestring budget. You have to put in the amount that a movie costs, for dinner, and then throw 60 bucks on top of that for the sitter. I call it the date night surcharge. And for 12 years, we’ve paid it. We have cut dates short because we didn’t want to increase the surcharge. How much for an extra hour? A car payment, and a year’s worth of college tuition.

My daughter, Little Hoss, bounces around the living room. She’s almost grown up, she has told me a thousand times. She can handle it, she can control it. A jump from the couch to my chair, and I can hear a piece of wood break. Or, to be more accurate, I ignore that piece of wood breaking and pretend it didn’t happen.

I need this time with my wife. We need it. Things get frantic with a family. You have to run to practices, my wife has to work late, the water heater bursts in the basement. Some weeks, I give my wife a kiss on Monday morning and don’t see her again until Friday. So date night isn’t just something fun. No. Date night is a chance to forget that we have three money suckers that demand only the brand name Oreos. Those who babysit get the brand name; those who are babysat get saltines smeared with cream cheese.

You have your orders, follow them

I line all three kids up in front of me and give them the most dad speech I have ever given.

“Little Hoss is in charge. That means what she says, goes. Got it?”

“Yes,” they all say but Little Hoss says it with a lot more enthusiasm.

“That means if she says it’s time to clean up, you clean up. If it’s time for a snack, she gets it. Got it?”

“But, dad,” my son says. “What if an airplane crashes into our house and she’s stuck in the bathroom? Then the fire department can’t get in because she can’t answer the door. How are we going to get a snack then?”

This is what my boy does. He is trying to find a way to make this not happen like his sister is some sort of monster that wouldn’t give him a snack. So he makes up the worst-case scenario to try to get me to change my mind. But it’s not going to work. I’m going to do some hardcore hand-holding today with my wife and nothing is going to stop that.

“If that happens, you can get your own snack. And let’s be reasonable. Your sister is going to take good care of you.”

“No, she won’t,” he says.

“Boy, don’t push it.”

I grab my keys and my wife and I head to the door. I give one more reminder.

“Remember! Little Hoss is in charge!” I yell.

And softly, as if almost whispered, I hear my daughter respond.

“Suck it,” she says. And I’m pretty sure she is manically laughing.

I pause. This is going to end badly.

Fuck it, I have insurance. My wife and I leave for our movie.

A version of ‘Babysitting Little Brothers’ first appeared on Hossman At-Home. Fear of babysitting sister photo: © luismolinero / Adobe Stock.

At the end of this past summer, my wife and I bought our sixth grader a cell phone.

Right now, many of you are groaning. You’re probably thinking, “A sixth grader? Really?!?”

Yep, we did, but, here’s the good news.

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU.

We bought our daughter a cell phone for a few different reasons…

1. Because I’m no longer a full-time stay-at-home dad, there will be occasions where she will be a latchkey kid. It won’t happen often, but when it does, it will be nice for her to call us (side note we don’t have a landline … remember those?)
2. She got her Safe Sitter certification and began babysitting. Since fewer and fewer families, like us, have landlines in their homes, we felt it was necessary for her to have a way to contact the parents of the kids she’s watching. Would you leave your sitter without a phone? Me neither.
3. She’ll end up with a phone eventually so we’re hoping by giving it to her at this age, with our help, she’ll learn to use it responsibly. She isn’t allowed (and doesn’t want) social media. She can text her friends but we have the feature to send pictures turned off. So, for the most part, when she is home the phone stays on the charger.

So why did I feel the need to mention this has nothing to do with you? Because it doesn’t. I’m not saying ALL sixth graders should have phones, just that ours should. We’ve made it clear to our other kids this doesn’t meant they automatically get phones at age 11 either. They’ll need to show they are ready for one.

Next time you see a tween with a phone, don’t instantly groan and roll your eyes. The parents of that child didn’t give him or her a phone to pressure you into getting one for your child. They got one for their child because it was the right thing for their family.

A version of this first appeared on Indy’s Child. Photo by Tim Gouw on Unsplash

I’m a poser.
I, at times, gracefully fake being a fully present father.

+  +  +

From my vantage point on the nearby playground, I could see a golfer on the tee box in the distance. He looked like a legitimate professional – wearing a white belt, a bright-colored, neatly pressed shirt with matching shorts and sparkling clean, glowing white spikes.

My daughter attempted to interrupt my staring, “Dad? Dad? DAD?”

“Hold on, Vivi! I want to see this guy tee off,”  shushing my 8-year-old as if I were a patron at the Masters.

“SHHH? What? It’s a playground, Dad!” Vivi stomped off, protesting my dismissal.

I didn’t mind. I was transfixed on the golfer – hoisting the driver slowly back, reaching the apex of his backswing and exploding forward with a WHOOOOSSSHHHH!

The next sound was a splash as the ball entered the murky lagoon to the immediate right of the tee box, followed by the golfer’s club-slamming tirade.

Chuckling, my focus jolted back to my children playing.

I suddenly noticed what my daughter was trying to tell me – a collaborative effort between her and her 4-year-old brother to hoist their 18-month-old sister into the infant swing.

“No!” I hollered and darted in their direction, reaching my kids in enough time to avoid a trip to the emergency room.

I returned, for now, to “Super Dad” mode.

My wife is better at this

My focus now squarely on my five renegade children engulfing the playground, I slowly pushed my swinging toddler and took in her joyful glees and beaming smiles.

I gladly absorbed the adoring stares of the moms seated on the benches at the playground’s parameter. I imagined them telling their husbands at home, “Honey, you should have seen this dad at the park – he was watching FIVE kids!”

Lulled into a state of comfort by my daughter’s happy squeals, I glanced to my left at the still-aggravated golfer fishing his errant tee shot from the swampy weeds.

I suddenly realized we were similar.

We were posers. He was a fake golfer while I, at times, gracefully fake being a fully present father.

Just as he, no doubt, may not have been worthy of the $500 irons that glistened from his Titleist bag, I don’t feel altogether right about being the subject of parenting accolades.

Today at the park was a perfect example of why I don’t wear a “Dads Don’t Babysit” tee or take a hard line in discussing the parental inequities that often only focus parenting superiority on the shoulders of a child’s mother.

The hard truth is: my wife is better at most of this parenting stuff.

She’s laser-focused on our kids’ needs – always.

My wife is much quicker to act on their behalf.

She is completely comfortable being honest with each of my children.

At times, I do babysit. I babysit while counting down the time until Mom returns home or trying to think of how my wife would act before doing so myself.

There are certainly instances when a cold beer with the guys sounds like a better Saturday night than watching Sing on the couch with my daughters.

Try, try again

I shouldn’t feel badly about those feelings, though. In fact, these times of self-doubt reinvigorate my dogged efforts to be a better dad and to work toward a place of household equity with my partner.

I’ll strive for achieving the parenting wherewithal that is truly 50/50.

Just as the golfer I watched could use some time on the driving range, I too need to get better.

As I scanned the park again to insure the safety of my five little ones, that same golfer caught my eye on the tee box of the next hole in the offing to my right.

He still looked like a professional as he reared back and, this time, drilled his drive 250 yards into the center of the fairway. His confident stride forward erased the memory of the previous hole’s lagoon — even if his spikes remained sopping wet.

Just like him, I’ll screw up as much as I succeed – and, likely, more often than my wife does.

But, I’ll keep learning.

I’ll keep trying.

I’ll seek to be, eventually, worthy of the outward symbol of fatherhood, parental equity – my T-shirt that tells the world that “Dads Don’t Babysit” – even me.

Playground photo: edenpictures via Foter.com / CC BY

You’re walking through the mall or Target or are at the park with your kids in tow. And a stranger stops you.

“Oh, your kids are so cute,” the person says. “How’s Daddy doing babysitting you?”

It has happened to me. Thankfully it hasn’t happened a ton. But it has happened enough that it pisses me off to no end.

I’m sorry? Did you just ask me if I was babysitting MY OWN KIDS?! Walk away. Walk away now.

This little bit of language people use when they see a dad out and about with their kids alone, this idea that because there is no mother present that the dad is babysitting — it’s long been something that annoys the hell out of me.

Dads are not babysitters. We are parents.

Is there somebody giving me money that I am not aware of to take care of my children? That’s a big bag of nope! If someone wants to give me money, though, that’s cool. I like money.

But Nick, you say, why is it so bad to ask a dad if he is babysitting? The person doesn’t mean anything by it. No. Just no. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t trying to be insulting or aren’t trying to insinuate that I’m less of a parent than my wife. But guess what? That’s exactly what you’re doing.

I bust my ass to be the best damn dad I can be to my two girls. And I’m damn proud to be their dad. Being a dad is my life. So, if you want to devalue that by calling me a babysitter, we’re going to have a problem.

Look, I’m not saying that I’m going to explode in your face if you call me a babysitter. But you’ll get a death stare from me and probably a few words that you’ll wish I hadn’t said. Stop perpetuating the archaic stereotype that dads are the lesser of the parents. Guess what? Parenting is typically a team sport. And the team is usually 50/50.

So, call me a dad, a father, ask me how my day of parenting my kids is going. Just don’t call me a babysitter. You’re better than that.

Purchase “Dads Don’t Babysit” clothing, like the shirt shown above, from our friends at the National At-Home Dad Network.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Nick Browne is member of our Philadelphia Dads Group. He is a dad to two daughters and writes the parenting site PapaBrownie.com, where a version of this first appeared.

I had a conversation with someone the other day about whether we were happy with using a baby nurse.

When we first returned home from the hospital, we used a baby nurse for the next 10 days. They are expensive — most cost over $200 per day … but, we were fortunate to get it as a gift from our family (something expecting parents might want to ask for). The advantages of having one significantly outweighed the disadvantages for us.

Some benefits of having a baby nurse:

• Getting us on a schedule for feeding, napping, bath, and bed time – #1 benefit
• Demonstrating different techniques for holding, swaddling, and comforting
• Great sounding board for the trillion questions you have during this steep learning curve
• They are not your family — gives you some breathing room
• Enables you take some naps during the day and sleep late in the morning in the middle of a sleep deprived and stressful time
• Use them as a babysitter at night if you want to break away for a quiet dinner or catch a flick

The downside:

• Very costly (daily cost + food expenses)
• You are not alone & it gets crowded (apartments in NYC are small enough…even smaller with another adult staying over)
• You may become too reliant on baby nurse which makes it harder when they leave

Our baby nurse was amazing – She was professional, knowledgeable, and was very loving to our son. It was tight in the apartment at times, especially when we had visitors. You have an additional stranger sleeping over, eating with you at dinner and breakfast, and watching TV. It was a strange experience! As first time parents, I would recommend looking into hiring a baby nurse or at least having a family member on hand for the first few weeks.

Curious to hear some stories on how you got through the first two weeks …

Photo by wang dongxu on Unsplash

On a rainy day a few months ago, this NYC Stay at Home Dad decided to test out the babysitting service in the kids’ playroom at the local NY Sports Club. Big mistake! I “strolled” into the gym around 10 a.m., and went directly to the kids’ playroom with my son, who had just woke up from a short nap. I was pleased to find two babysitters in the playroom and only 3 other kids – great ratio of 1 to 2! I asked the sitter what their rate was per hour and how their program works. Basically, they accept kids as early as 3 months old, you sign your name/address on a sheet, sign a waiver, accept the bargain fee of $5.00/hr, and can use their service for up to 2 hours. Other important information: the babysitter will not change diapers, and will find you in the gym if your baby starts to cry. I handed the babysitter a blanket for tummy time and told them how much my son loved being in the Exersaucer. I know my son’s temperament, and his ability to entertain himself on a playmat or in an Exersaucer for an extended period of time, so I was positive that this would work out for me once or twice a week.  

I lasted about 20 minutes on the treadmill before I saw the babysitter’s reflection in the mirror behind me, waving her arms, and telling me my “baby is crying.” I returned to the playroom to find my son in screaming tantrum mode (a rarity). Bottom line: he was in his stroller seat, with no toys for 20 minutes – he was bored. They would not put him on the playmat because two older kids were around and they worried about his safety. They would not put him in the Exersaucer because he was not 7 months old yet (he was 2 days away). Those were their rules and they were sticking to them. I guess they were telling me that they expected my son to sit in the stroller like a ‘perfect angel’ during my hour workout – fat chance! I have seen playrooms at their Long Island locations that look newer, more spacious, and filled with lots of new toys. I have not returned to the gym during the day since that incident almost 2 months ago. I am interested to hear if anyone has had a positive/negative experience like this?