That Tiffany song. You know the one. It played in sixth grade at my first school dance.

There I stood for the first time in close physical proximity to a female who didn’t birth me and in a way that would’ve said, “Hey there, beautiful,” if a chubby boy in a peach knit cardigan sweater and a regrettable volume of Drakkar Noir could have exuded such a brand of clumsy middle school pre-sexual energy.

These are not memories I reflect upon so often that they spill like spring rain from an overly saturated flower pot. These faint brush strokes and passing scents remain with me after a quarter century of neglect. So much new and good has come that there isn’t room for what won’t promote growth. Onward and upward. Everything else goes overboard.

This is awkwardness in retrospect, the opposite of nostalgia. I didn’t enjoy my grade school career, to put it bluntly. That first dance was a tidy microcosm of my school life. Mostly alone. Portly. Embarrassed, before I knew what meaning the word could hold. And with a girl who, rightfully, didn’t see me as a threat. It would be years before I’d realize this was the role of a lifetime.

My 10-year-old daughter has her first school dance this Friday evening, a sock hop with music from her grandparents’ heyday on the cutting-a-rug circuit. She’s over the moon with excitement, as am I, for her.

She’s said some kids are asking each other to the dance, less a date, from what I understand, as it is a ritual of accompaniment. No one wants to be alone. She has asked a friend, a girl, if she’d “go with her.” That’s great because none of the fifth graders will likely have full dance cards.

This dance will be charming in its formality. Bow ties will be straightened by moms who’ll find it damn near impossible to keep their hands from shaking long enough to capture a single clear iPhone photo to commemorate the night. Car doors will swing open and glittering silver-and-black shoes will clatter down the concrete walkway to the grade school gym while dads drive back home in cars emptied of their most precious cargo. I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.

As I write this, it is Tuesday afternoon. I sit here anxious for the 8 p.m. Friday pickup time to arrive. But not because I want my daughter to stop dancing. It’s because I cannot wait to listen as she puts her head on my shoulder and recounts the entire Technicolor evening in hi-def detail.

Those will be memories worth letting soak in for a quarter century or more.

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This blog post, which first appeared here in 2017, is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids. First dance photo: gsdsw via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA)

Most parents are scared to let their children fail. After all, no one wants a child to feel the cold sting of embarrassment or the torment of loss. Therefore, preventing failure is exactly what our culture attempts to do by installing rubberized cocoons and calling them playgrounds, and forcing tie scores in grade-school basketball games.

We seem to forget that without struggle, there can be no progress. Without embarrassment, there can be no empathy. Without failure, there can be no success. By outright avoiding the challenges of failure and embarrassment now, we are screwing up our children. We are creating future adults too fragile to exist in a world that won’t kiss their every boo-boo and gloss over their errors.

Can we stop the madness of over-protecting our children from every one of life’s potential pitfalls? I frankly do not know if it is too late to reverse course. However, I have come up with five easy steps that qualify as the opposite of helicopter parenting that you can take right now to make a difference.

1. Don’t do your child’s school projects

It is 100 percent a douche move to do the majority of your kiddo’s school project work. If you need to live vicariously through your child’s faux accomplishments in third grade, you are a colossal loser.

And, in case you’re wondering, you ain’t fooling anyone. We can all tell your kid had nothing to do with their pristine blue-ribbon winning science fair entry. You need to step off. Let them carry into class their crappy diorama with glue streaks because that is their real output. That kind of youthful failure is to be embraced. It will encourage them to try harder next time. And the next time and the time after that. This process is called “evolution.” If you do not let your children fail then you are stepping on its throat every time you complete assignments on your child’s behalf. Stop it.

2. Don’t correct their homework

How can anyone learn when their work has been scrubbed and sanitized? How will teachers know what your kid does or does not ACTUALLY know if every answer is correct, some of them artificially, on their homework when it comes back the next day? Let your kids try to use the knowledge they are accumulating in class. Let your children fail by getting some of the answers wrong. Allow them to be corrected by their teachers. This teaches them how to process constructive feedback from someone not related to them. Otherwise, you are standing over their shoulder applying Wite-Out to their childhood educational experience.

3. Shut up during sports

Dudes, tone it down. Let the coaches coach. Let the refs and the umps do their best. Trust in the process. Stop shouting in-game corrections to your kid and their teammates. If you do have a legit beef, be an adult and voice it on the down-low without veins bulging from your neck while you sit 20 yards off in the distance. Instead, allow your child and their instructors to work through the nuances of their performance. You are embarrassing yourself, your family, and most importantly, your kid. Now sit the hell down and shut up.

4. Let ‘em fall

You’re supposed to fall off the monkey bars while learning how to get from one side to the other. That’s how this stuff works. It’s called “trial and error,” not “trial and repeated help from a scared parent.” Kids have to know what it feels like to lose their grip, to feel the beads of sweat forming on their clammy palms, and to struggle mightily to stay attached to the cold metal bars, only to eventually succumb to gravity and hit the recently rubberized woodchips hard. Dust ’em off. Give ’em a kiss. Then encourage them to try it again … if not right away, then in a bit when their courage bar refills. Soon, they will get the hang of it, literally, and the glory in their accomplishment will be enhanced for having taken the more treacherous path instead of the padded one.

5. Embrace mistakes

Too many kids are not being allowed to make mistakes in their youth, the exact time when mistake-making SHOULD occur. Kids are going to screw up. They are going to invite ants into their room by leaving remnants of a sugary snack on the floor. They are going to drop and shatter a plate when trying to carry too many dishes while clearing the table after dinner. It is our job to pull lessons from these moments and teach a better way forward. That is one of the biggest “asks” of parenthood: to have the tough conversations, to give constructive feedback to help them learn from mistakes, to hold them tight but not hold them back when they are scared of failing, to give them the space necessary to try on their own, to love at every turn.

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

A version of this first appeared on Out With the Kids and then here in 2015. It has since been updated. Photo by Gustavo Fring via Pexels.

This graduation season, I moved the tassel to the other side of my mortarboard for I have passed Parenting a Tween and commenced Parenting A Teenager. Where’s my stinkin’ cake? What, no moonbounce in the backyard? What a rip-off.

Graduating a kid from tween to teen usually doesn’t register on either end of the celebration spectrum. That’s a shame. Having a child turn 13 is a special time for the child and also the mother and father. It also marks a turning point in the ever-evolving parent/child relationship. In fact, it just might be the most important time in both of your lives.

Of course, the baby years are important. However, I’m reminded of a baseball saying: “You can’t win the World Series in the first month of the season but you can lose it.” I think this applies to parenting too.

So much of the parenting world, from “expert” books to those tired parenting memes to the overall cultural conversation about kids, revolves around the early years and the sleepless nights. In retrospect, all that stuff — the baby, toddler and early elementary years — is the easiest part of a parent’s job responsibility. We can get that shit done with only determination and a stronger gag reflex. For our efforts, we’re rewarded with baby smiles, adorably mispronounced words, a fountain of kisses and air-tight squeezy hugs.

So, don’t drop your baby on its head. Don’t blow secondhand smoke in its tiny face. Definitely don’t be an asshole as your child grows from baby to toddler to tween –someone sorta resembling a real-life actual person. But try as you may, you aren’t going to “win it all” at parenting in those early years.

With that in mind, here’s what I’ve learned about parenting by parenting a tween:

Watch those ‘foreverwords’

I was speaking with a friend when she mentioned the term “foreverwords.” Say your tween child has done something. Maybe that something is grand or maybe it is life-altering in what could be a possibly terrible way. Regardless of how good or poor their decision-making proves to be, how you respond initially — the actions and words you use in that very moment as you and she/he teeter on a high wire — will form the foundation for a possible shift in your parent/child relationship.

The idea of pausing before speaking or acting out those foreverwords hit me hard. The wrong choice could be ugly.

The tween years of parenting require more nuanced thought, on-the-fly nimbleness, and patiently considered words and actions. Our rewards during this often confusing and conflicting time won’t always be as adorable or evident or immediate or obvious as they were in those baby and toddler years. However, they will be powerful for the life of your child.

So tread lightly, moms and pops. The cement is wet still and awfully impressionable. You do not want to misstep and cause cracks in your kid’s permanent foundation. Not now, not after you took such care to keep them alive and reasonably happy for the past decade or so.

Be more involved with them than ever before

You don’t get to parent less or clock out in any way from the job when your kid reaches the tween years. The exact opposite is true. You need to put in more hours, give your parenting decisions more thought, and double down on your commitment to the job of being a dad or mom.

Parenting a tween (and I’m sure a teen as well) requires more from you. I’m afraid many parents don’t get this memo. Many parents think their job is nearly over in the tween years and they check out through the teen years.

That’s a terrible, terrible move.

Yes, your older child is pretty darn self-reliant now. They have a phone, they can let themselves into the house by themselves and stay at home while you run errands locally. It’s kinda great for you and them.

You can have conversations about some grown-up stuff with your tween and it’s actually enjoyable and thought-provoking at times.

While all that is true, your 11-, 12-, 13-, 15-, 17-year-old child needs you to be a more actively involved parent now. More than ever before.

They need us more, even if they insist they don’t. So we need to parent more.

More thoughtfully, more passionately, more earnestly, more actively.

More.

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

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids. It first ran here in 2017 and has since been updated. Photo: ©LIGHTFIELD STUDIOS / Adobe Stock.

Are you a worrying parent?

I was but I’ve been at this long enough to have accumulated quite a bit of dirt beneath my fingernails (which have been painted numerous times and in a variety of colors by my two daughters) and to have walked a metaphorical mile with LEGO bricks stuck to the bottom of my parental feet. Still, I’m not immune to the nagging twinge of parental insecurity, and I too doubt myself more than any parent who tries probably should.

It’s damn hard to be alive and alert in the Pinterest age of perceived perfection filled with amazing school lunches and darling lunch notes, handmade end-of-year teacher’s gifts that radiate thoughtfulness, and countless kid/parent video series, each one more clever than the last. I can’t compete with all of that shit, either.

But this isn’t a competition. Our kids aren’t going to be holding up a score placard like the crooked Ukrainian judge at the end of a figure skating tournament. They love us and if we try hard, they will notice and appreciate our effort to keep them on the straight and narrow even if we take a winding path to get there. So stop worrying, fretting about every decision and judging yourself against the people of the internet. Half that shit is Photoshopped anyway.

I finally stopped worrying about as a parent these seven things, and in turn, have become a better, happier parent almost instantly:

Stop worrying about serving vegetables and/or fruit every day

My wife and I have built a sturdy foundation, of this I am nearly almost totally 99% certain, probably, so there is no longer (was there ever?) a need to panic about their fruit and veggie intake on a daily basis. My daughters each, although one WAY more than the other, enjoy many varieties of fruits and veggies, raw and prepared in a variety of ways. It’s all good. And if they skip a day or two, I know that they will be fine.

No more worrying about a little extra screen time

It can be fun to loaf around and play games. They are kids after all, and it’s pretty cool to sometimes veg out in front of a TV screen or a device. The outside — with its sticks, lightning bugs, swing sets and scooters — is an option they choose often enough, so I can chillax if they, on occasion, pick the iPad or the 3DS instead. They will be fine.

Stop trying to hit every tourist destination

We no longer push our daughters’ physical or mental limits to squeeze in everything when we travel. Instead, we do what we can at a leisurely pace, see what we can see, experience more of a place than see all of that place, and in turn, leave the girls plenty still to discover should they return decades later with their own kids. So what if we miss something being sold on a postcard at the airport? They will be fine.

Quit freaking that her shorts are too tiny

Their ass cheeks aren’t sticking out, their underwear is not visible, and the pockets are not longer than the hem (man, that trend is hideous) of their denim shorts, but the clothes they are in are a bit tiny-ish. I could never get comfortable in threads like that, although now that I’m losing weight I find form-fitting shirts more pleasant than baggy ones but then again, I am a man — no one is going to bat an eye if my form is evident through my clothing as I walk down the street. Women don’t have it so easy.

My girls are 10 and 7, and they wear what makes them happiest without care about a world full of adults who might judge, men who might leer, or women who might tsk-tsk. My two goofball daughters dress for themselves and no one else, and that is what I wish to instill in them. They are comfy and they will be fine.

It’s OK if they swim immediately after eating

To quote Josh and the Jamtones hilarious “Bear Hunt” comedy skit, “So I just had a piece of pizza, who cares?” Myths are for those with too much time on their hands. Finish chewing then cannonball away, girls, you will be fine.

Stop fretting about crappy pop music

That stuff is no longer a bugaboo for me … but the Demi Lovato version of “Let it Go” still sucks. I’m grateful for the “kindie” music that has allowed me as a music lover to give my daughters song upon song that they were able to “get” from a very young age, songs that spoke to them and their childhood experiences as toddlers, grade schoolers and now as kids who are just now beginning to grow out of their youth with a wistful melancholy about that very transition.

While she still listens loudly and with much love to amazing bands like The Pop Ups, Recess Monkey, Lunch Money and Secret Agent 23 Skidoo, they now share space in our iTunes library with more familiar names. It is all good because my girls know what great music, made with passion, and presented live in intimate settings, is all about. They’ve been holding hands with it from the start. And they will be fine.

Stop worrying about playing organized sports or extracurriculars

They’ve tried gymnastics, ballet, tap, soccer, karate, basketball, floor hockey, tennis and golf yet nothing has proved as sticky as imaginative unstructured playtime together as sisters at home. They get along with other kids, especially if the other kids are younger and adorable, that’s when my two mini-mommies shine, and so I am no longer concerned with the absence of team or solo competitive pursuits. Many “experts” will tell you a child needs such activity, but even without many going forward, I am certain my daughters will be absolutely fine.

Editor’s Note: A version of this article first appeared on Out With the Kids. Photo by Paul Keller on Foter.com / CC BY

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2016.

Since the internet and calendar tell me I’ve got a kid approaching age 13, I offer you eight observations that will give you important insight into what you need to know about raising a tween.

1. Your Silence is Golden … Sometimes

I get it, fellow dads, you’re fixers. Same here. But when you’re raising a tween you will find she will go through some stuff that you can’t fix, complicated stuff that she doesn’t even want you to try to fix. Often during this time, a steady shoulder to lean on — literally and figuratively — is all that’s required of you. You’ll know when your sage advice and vaguely related stories of your own youth are needed. That’s when you can strap on your cape and save the day.

2. What are You Wearing/Doing to Your Hair?

Tweens will, especially if they weren’t permitted to have any decision-making power in their “younger days,” push boundaries and your buttons when it comes to fashion. While you should have been granting them this freedom all along, it is important to understand they are trying to define themselves to the world. This is a good and important thing. So pick your battles wisely. Eventually, the “Can I color my hair?” or “Who said you could color your hair?” conversation will happen. Have a spare towel and a pair of plastic gloves at the ready.

3. Watch What Your Face is Really Saying

Michelle Icard nails it in her great book, Middle School Makeover: You may think you are saying nothing while your tween opens up about him or her or them or it but your face is anything but quiet. Raising a tween means paying more attention to your facial expressions than you ever thought necessary. (Listen to the Modern Dads Podcast with Michelle Icard about this very topic!)

4. Smell Like Tween Spirit – Eww

Babies smell like rainbows. Toddlers like every food ever made AND then combined. Tweens … well, tweens smell like sweat and hormones and awkwardness. Water bill be damned, daily showers are now essential.

5. It’ll Inevitably Come Unhinged Raising a Tween

Usually, by using nothing more than a Phillips head screwdriver, you can take a door off its hinges. Keep this in mind if door slamming becomes a part of your life when raising a tween because it gets awfully hard to slam something that isn’t there.

Now for a few things that might fly in the face of conventional wisdom about raising a tween …

6. They’re Never Too Old for a Snuggle

Admittedly, it might not happen as frequently as when they were 5 and maybe not in front of certain (or any) friends, but your tween will still crave a good snuggle and they won’t necessarily refuse a hand to hold while walking into a concert with you either.

7. You Can’t Spell ‘School’ Without ‘Fun’

OK. None of the letters in “fun” are found in “school” but tweens, while obviously growing up, are still kids and kids like having fun. That’s a fact. It’s important to remember not to strip all of the school time fun away just because the kids are starting to look like mini-adults.

8. Toys are Still Fun

It’s not all texting and dystopian books with tweens, or at least it doesn’t have to be. Littlest Pets, Matchbox cars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Legos, Minions, and more: pop culture toy icons don’t fade away when a kid turns 10 (only to return a decade later when that kid is suddenly a hipster 20-year-old). They are still fun and if given the opportunity to enjoy an elongated childhood, your tween can and will still be a kid.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids. Photo: © Alinute / Adobe Stock.

The CEO of my former employer loved the word “hubris.” He’d warn against it in grand speeches designed to keep us hungry, innovative and humble. He said avoiding it would ensure we remained client-focused in the face of tremendous success and a steady stream of critical acclaim.

People loved our company but, instead of embracing that love, he challenged us to keep the affection and admiration of others an arm’s length away. His thinking: once you start believing you are great, you’ll focus less on the small details that made you great in the eyes of others. And then — poof — you will no longer be great. He’s not wrong.

Despite my prep school education, I was unfamiliar with the word back then but took to it quickly. Hubris seemed a kissing cousin of “complacency,” an attitude I knew well to avoid. Still, I wouldn’t dare slip “hubris” into casual conversations. It’s a tough word to ram into everyday sentences: “I’ll take a hubris small caramel vanilla steamer hubris and a pumpkin muffin hubris hubris hubris.” See?

Plus, lots of people already think I’m an elitist douche. No need to add another log to that fire.

I believe I’m a pretty good dad. I say that with as little hubris as possible because if they drilled it into me at work for nearly a decade: hungry, innovative, humble, and focused on serving my clients. Got it, boss.

New job, old focus to halt parenting hubris

Long gone is that office full of HR reps and the tens of thousands of 401(k) contributing employees at FedEx. In fact, my client base has shrunk dramatically since choosing the at-home dad life, down to two to be precise. But I’ve stayed hungry, innovative, humble and focused. Maybe at times to the extreme and that’s been exhausting. Now though, after 13 years in this job known as fatherhood, the best job ever, I’ve actively decided to care less about the stuff happening on the sidelines and in the stands so I can stay present on the field of play. (Whoa, who ordered the sports metaphor?)

I still pepper my internal monologue with these kinds of questions:

• Did I check her phone for new apps, photos?
• When was the last time I asked about her friends and their conversations?
• Has she had fruit today? A veggie?
• Does she get enough time outside?
• When was the last time she showered?
• Why was there only one pair of underwear in the laundry but four different outfits? Eewww.
• Is she being bullied?
• Or pressured into things at school? Through text?
• Am I bullying her?
• Did she practice her instrument?
• She is growing up privileged, it’s true, but is she becoming entitled?
• Seriously, why the hell was there only one pair of her underwear in the laundry?

I suffer through a daily parade of these questions because it’s important for me to never start assuming I’ve raised perfect kids. They are pretty freaking great but hubris hubris hubris. I need to stay focused and believe, because it is true, that there’s a lot of work and foundation building still to be completed. My clients still need me to stay hungry, innovative, humble and focused.

Avoiding the TP trap 

What I no longer fret about is the roll of toilet paper perpetually left on top of the toilet paper holder that’s bolted into the wall. I’d constantly nag my wife and daughters about putting in the extra 2.5 seconds and minimal muscular effort required to install the new roll properly (or at all) but they constantly wouldn’t, and it would make me steamy as I put in the 2.5 seconds and minimal muscular effort.

I don’t nag them or even put the TP on myself anymore. The TP just sits there, a tiny white 2-ply prince upon his thrown. This might seem terribly small, and it totally is, I’ll admit that, but it is one less stupid, otherwise meaningless thing to get annoyed about during the course of my life. And that, my friends, is not a small thing at all.

Not letting the uninstalled toilet paper roll piss me off makes me a better dad because now I can focus a little bit more on the underwear thing and the phone thing and the instrument, shower, fruits and veggies, outdoor time, bullying, and maybe, on myself a little more too.

I like to think my old boss would be proud of my lack of hubris. He’d like my drive to stay hungry, innovative, humble and focused on raising two great clients, I mean daughters. Raising two great daughters.

Photo: © Feng Yu / Adobe Stock.

It’s often described as a tightrope, but that’s not terribly accurate. There is no risk of falling off either side.

This period of life, the immeasurable, undefinable, delicate space between childhood and young adulthood, is more akin to finding yourself in the middle of a meadow. It can be peaceful and pleasant but also foreboding. All depends on the direction of the wind and the light or absence thereof.

The meadow in the midst of youth and growing up is a vast space between two distinctly different environments: to the left, the lush forest up ahead with flora and fauna but with less light seeping through a thick canopy onto downed branches that lift feet high up to clear comfortably; and to the right, rolling hills dotted with sandboxes, faded pastel plastic toys, ladder ball, and four square courts.

The lions, tigers and bears back there are filled not with a fear of us but a quilted softness.

In this clearing, not everything ahead or behind is clearly visible. No one tends this meadow, not exactly. It’s left wild which is what makes it wonderful albeit daunting to navigate at times with pricker bushes, tall grasses, and more than a handful of birds of prey circling above. Occasionally one will swoop down with a thunderous approach and with no fair warning — everyone needs to eat.

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There’s a black and white one with colorful eyes, and people who see it say, “She looks 20!” Or “They grow up too quickly.” Or “How did she get so old?”

They aren’t wrong but the girl I see right this minute is cuddled up in otter pajamas watching little kid cartoon reruns with her younger sister. Straightness of hair, freshness of breathe, and time of day are of no concern. They laugh at all the same jokes from underneath a heated blanket on too high a setting for the temperature of the room.

The young woman I saw last night wore a burgundy leather jacket, tight black jeans with intentional rips strategically placed down her right leg, sparkling lip gloss, and fierce combat boots that announce her arrival with an aggression belaying her passive nature. She was 6 feet tall with her back arched, moving with a swagger I personally have never had the wherewithal to own. Last night, she stepped nearer the woods.

The 14-going-on-20-but-still-back-at-7-year-old is in the middle of this meadow. I’m there with her, alongside and holding her hand periodically, other times I lag a step behind her confident gait. We’re going forward and back, side to side, soaking up new freedoms, and observing the warmth of the sun on her changing face.

This is the best of both worlds, for a child and her dad.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids.
Meadow photo: Foter.com; Girl photo: Jeff Bogle

Eight traffic lights separate the short driveway in front of our home and our grade school’s two separate parent drop-off zones. Pushing back from the gate by 7:46 a.m. affords us the time to just miss a few of them.

We’ve got to be reversing out of the driveway by 7:46 each morning with lunches, flutes and books in tow, or else. Any later, even just one minute later, and a just missed traffic light flipping from green to yellow to red might result in my oldest child being late for school, and this parent having to walk her in, hand her over, and walk back to the car alone with a pink tardy slip of shame.

But it was that one traffic light! That one slow-ass-mofo in front of me! Those geese crossing the street!

No excuses, dad. No later than 7:46 a.m. Or. Else.

When one kid decides at 7:45:38 a.m. that she really needs to bring her box of 64 Crayolas into school but really needs a piece of tape to hold down the lid so all five dozen hues of green, orange, yellow, brown, blue and red don’t spill into her backpack but she can’t find the roll of tape because it’s not where it should be because she was (probably) the last one to use it so it of course didn’t get put back in its proper place so that when it is needed to secure the lid of a crayon box at 7:45:38 a.m. so we can be backing out of the driveway by 7:46 a.m. it, of course, is nowhere to be found. And the clock ticks on humorlessly, with no color at all.

And then I yelled.

And then she slammed down the box of 64, the lid flapping up violently like the head of an airline passenger who feels the first rattle of out-of-nowhere turbulence.

And then she slammed open the front door.

And then she stormed into the car.

And then I proceeded to unload on her for most of the 13-minute drive, reminding her of our 7:46 a.m. deadline, of the need to think ahead for things like lace-up shoes and boxes of crayons. I decided on a dime to levy a consequence: to take away her after-school outdoor time, an especially harsh repercussion of her actions on this day. Her new electric Razor scooter had just arrived and would be fully charged by the time she tossed her backpack down on the entry way bench at 4:10 p.m.

I dropped her off. And then I asked her sister if I was too harsh. She said I was, a little, not the consequence, necessarily, but everything else.

I thought about this all day, a sunny day that was made for scootering around a small neighborhood after a day of second grade drudgery, of coloring with school issued off-brand crayons, of animal habitats and extreme weather lesson plans, of being trapped indoors for all but 15 minutes.

I picked up my second grader first. And I gave her a big, loving hug before pulling away from the first parent pick-up zone I visit every afternoon. I apologized for getting so angry with her eight hours prior and asked her if we could each try to not get so worked up over such things as crayon boxes, pieces of tape, and 30 seconds on either side of any single minute, 7:46 a.m. or otherwise. She agreed and hugged me back.

We talked about her day, about tornadoes and hurricanes and 10 feet of water in hotel lobbies. It was an eventful Tuesday.

And then with a smile, she ran in through the very door she slammed open to run out, tossed her backpack onto the entry way bench at 4:10 p.m., unplugged her new scooter, strapped on her helmet, and was off.

We’re both still growing up. We never stop growing up, not really, whether we’re 7, 11, 36 or 39, or any number before, in between or after.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids.

She’s arrived here at her own pace, free from impediments and devoid of turbocharged power boosts that would race her toward an imaginary checkered flag.

My oldest daughter is 12. And a half, technically. A tween by any definition, and her childhood is still going strong.

Some days she’s got the swagger of a confident individual who has all the answers, in a distinctly adulting kind of way, not like a sassy know-it-all toddler.

Other days, my tween seems troubled by … something or many somethings, maybe, and in those more confusing moments she requires nothing more than a quiet hug, a dependable shoulder, a listening ear, or time alone in her room listening to music, drawing, or snuggled up with a book.

Then there are the days, and there are still so many of them, where she’s a giggly, ticklish, baby-talking, stuffed-animal-carrying-around little kid.

His name’s Falafel and he’s been in school every day of sixth grade since she received him as a 12th birthday gift in the spring. Now, this is just me riffing here but the speckled grey bunny had come to symbolize her childhood in so much that he was being clung to with vigor by a girl who is aware that she’s growing up but refuses to let go of all that is glorious about the opposite, by a girl who knows full well that changes will be arriving soon but is defiantly unwilling to let any of those changes impact her youth or her youthful exuberance.

It’s right here, in observing her in those varied moments, that I believe the Mrs. and I have done a solid job as parents because while she arrived here at her own pace, she didn’t arrive here by accident. My wife and I actively worked, and are still plugging away, to make childhood a long, pleasant, exploratory and collaborative period of time. The results, so far, are two happy kids who appear in no hurry to close that chapter of their lives.

We envisioned these very results which is exactly why we made the decision a dozen-plus years ago to promote childhood over anything and everything else. My wife and I decided we wanted to raise children, not groom future college students or prep them for cubicled middle management, and to invest in childhood at every turn. The returns on our investment of time, energy, thought and, at times, money, have been, more than half way through the process, nothing short of remarkable.

In fact, forget my old 401(k), our house, and my wife’s Roth IRA. A long, lovely childhood for two bright, curious, creative and kind young ladies is far and away the best investment we’ve ever made, because our oldest daughter is 12 1/2-years-old and her childhood is still going strong.

A version of tween first appeared on Out with the Kids. Photo: Jeff Bogle.

There was a time not so long ago, let’s just call that time “yesterday,” when I would have judged you. Quietly. To myself in the moment we two shared without your knowledge but not in nearly as creepy a way as that sounds.

I would be again judging you later, to my wife that evening after the kids were in bed and I’d become a tad punch-drunk thanks to the lateness of the hour. I’d crack wise and witty about your laziness, about how you’d rather keep your toddler distracted than have to actually engage and be present as a mom, about how your kid is growing up perfectly suited to the modern zombified culture of screens and listless adulthood.

Yesterday, I was an asshole.

Today,  I’m — well — a little bit less of an asshole. I’ve approached the end of judgement.

The judging begins 

You were heading back to your minivan from the grocery store, crossing the street that separates the automatic sliding doors at the entrance and the vast, sloping uphill parking lot. In a little over an hour, that very street would be a buzz with hardcore shoppers coming and going and the primo spaces we two scored would become hot property worth fighting over — and some just might.

You were pushing a cart full of value-sized cereal boxes, carrots with the inedible greenery dangling over the edge, and bread so fresh the clear cellophane portion of its bag was steamed up. All of your food stuffs were double bagged in taupe plastic, for the handles of course, so that they’d be easier for you to pick up, load into and eventually out of your car. I can dig the double bagging, as a means of avoiding a paper bag going rogue all over your driveway, because we’ve all been there. Organic brown eggs smashed on the asphalt, good money wasted. Dammit.

Your boy was also in the cart, his little legs sticking out of the cold square metal framed holes beneath the handle bar. He was held in rapture by the small screen of your phone. He seemed content, albeit relatively expressionless. That’s a popular look these days.

Excuses, you could have had them

I don’t know what your morning had been like to that point, or what his was like for that matter. Maybe he’s coming down from a fever, unable to go to daycare for the past few days. Maybe you’ve been scrambling to get your work done with a sick kid in the other room. Maybe your boss has been less than accommodating. Maybe that’s been rough. I don’t know, but “yesterday” my smugness didn’t permit me to care or to give any benefit of the doubt to you or him or them or anyone.

Yesterday, your kid was a zombie and you were a lazy mom. Case closed. But the world is rarely ever that black and white and the times in which we vaguely interact with others are single frames, the closest thing to still life photography in the ever-rotating world. Miniscule bits of data and back story can legitimately be surmised from a flip book worth of images around us — one, one, one, one, one at a time. This is the information what we get and process and voluntarily choose to judge based upon. That was yesterday.

I knew all of these truths yesterday but I consistently pushed them aside, making it easier to judge you, to get a cheap laugh, to hold myself in higher regard. I’ve kinda had enough of that. Maybe you are a lazy mom and maybe your kid is a tech-obsessed zombie child but I have no freaking clue if that is reality. All I saw was a mom doing her shopping and maybe needing a few minutes to get her thoughts together, to find her keys, load the car without a single distraction, and figure out a way to get that presentation over to her boss before lunchtime. Maybe.

Yesterday I had to paint to the edges of all the pictures, but today I’m OK with putting the brushes down, leaving the canvases incomplete, and walking away back into my own life’s portrait.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids.