The Daily Dad

Nobody wants to see their kid make a mistake. That’s why we spend so much time teaching them right and wrong, why we try to be a good example, why we try to catch and stop them when we see them going down the wrong path. 

Since the beginning of time fathers have been doing this...and since the beginning of time have had, at best, only minimal success. In the novel Siddhartha, the title character tries desperately to convince his son of the importance of the simple way of life, having learned the wisdom of it through painful experience. Like you, like all fathers, he watches as his son ignores his warnings, despairing as his son goes the wrong direction. As he sees his son falling into bad habits, Siddhartha confides his frustration to his friend, Vasudeva, who replies, “Do you really believe you have committed your follies so that your son may be spared them?” 

It would be wonderful if our kids didn’t have to learn through trial and error, if they could simply accept our advice and start where we left off, rather than touch the proverbial hot stove for themselves. But we should be wise enough as human beings by now to know that is simply not how life works. Much of what we learn has to be learned on our own. Some mistakes have to be made to be fully understood. Don’t your own experiences teach you that, anyway? How many of your parents’ warnings did you really listen to?

You can’t prevent your kids from making mistakes. Nor, honestly, should you really want to. You have to let them learn on their own. And you have to give them the space to do it. Knowing that you’ve instilled the character, the awareness, and the willingness to ask for help that they will need in order to bounce back from the mistakes they will inevitably make. 

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Do you know the story of the 300 Spartans? Maybe you do. It was first immortalized by Herodotus, and then has been passed down through the ages from Simonides to Plutarch. Most recently, it was the basis for the awesome Zack Snyder movie by the same name, and Steven Pressfield’s beautiful novel, Gates of Fire. 

If you don’t know the story, here’s what happens: the Ancient Greek King Leonidas led some 7,000 men, 300 of which were Spartans, in a battle against an invading army of more than 300,000 soldiers led by Xerxes the Great, king of the Achaemenid dynasty of Persia. The Spartans held the front line for two days, but on the third, they were outmaneuvered. Leonidas ordered the 300 Spartans to remain and fight, sacrificing himself and his men to allow Greece to live and fight another day. 

There is a part left out in most retellings though, that is worth thinking about today. How did Leonidas choose the 300 warriors to lead out to the Hot Gates to battle an overwhelming enemy? Obviously he picked his best and bravest warriors. But there was something else they all had in common. They were all “fathers of living sons.” You might think this was exactly what leaders would have tried to avoid—that the ones with families were allowed to sit out this potential suicide mission—but that’s now how it worked in Sparta. Fathers were chosen because fathers would not want to let their sons down. These fathers would fight most bravely, most fiercely, not only to protect what they had back at home, but also because they would not dare abandon their comrades or behave cowardly for fear of letting down the family that so looked up to them. 

How far we have gotten from this! You have parents bribing their kids into college. You have dads looting the companies they work for to pay for that ski house in Aspen. You have people willing to do anything to get famous—from sex tapes to reality television—even if it means humiliating their kids forever. C’mon. 

Remember: A little fellow follows you. Your kids are always watching. They’re the ones you should want to impress. They’re the ones you should never want to let down. They’re the ones you’re not only fighting for, but whose standards—whose natural admiration and love—you should always be fighting to live up to. 

They are the only ones whose opinions matter. 

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This is just my personality, we say. I just don’t have any energy when I get home from work, we complain. I’m in a bad mood today, that’s all. My parents weren’t any different, and I turned out ok. It’s just a stressful period right now. They’re young, they won’t remember any of this. 

All lies. All excuses. All holding the potential to cause terrible pain

In his beautiful and vulnerable memoir, Bruce Springsteen talks—years later—about how his father’s mood and issues affected him. “As a boy I just figured it was the way men were, distant, uncommunicative, busy within the currents of the grown-up world,” he said. “As a child you don’t question your parents’ choices. You accept them. They are justified by the godlike status of parenthood. If you aren’t spoken to, you’re not worth the time. If you’re not greeted with love and affection, you haven’t earned it. If you’re ignored, you don’t exist.” 

It breaks your heart. And each of us is doing some version of that to our own kids right now. Our moods and choices and the examples we set are affecting them always, changing how they see the world and how they see themselves. It’s making them feel better or worse, worthwhile or worthless, safe or vulnerable. 

A little fellow follows you, remember that. The decision to shut down emotionally doesn’t just impact you. The decision to overcommit. The decision to be gone. The decision to hold onto resentments. The decision not to take care of yourself. The decision to hold them to unfair standards, to belittle or to be mean.

All of this matters. It matters more than anything.

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Douglas MacArthur was a complicated man. He was ambitious. He was vain. He made many mistakes. It’s very unlikely that he was a perfect father. In fact, it’d be incredible if he had been, given his demanding, seemingly perfect father (a Civil War hero) and controlling, overly involved mother (who was actively involved in her son’s career up until her death in 1935). 

But it is surprising that, given all that, Douglas MacArthur seemed relatively accepting of his quiet, sensitive boy. It was undoubtedly MacArthur’s dream to see his son graduate from West Point and enter the service. That was never going to happen. So MacArthur had to adjust, like all fathers he had to accept “undeniable reality,”—something that could not have been easy for a man used to getting his way on a global scale. 

This was a learning experience for MacArthur as it will be for all of us. It forced him to think about measuring life on different terms, certainly terms different than his own parents had thought about. We get a sense of this from a “prayer” he wrote one evening for his only child, his son, Arthur:

“Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Build me a son whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; a son who will know Thee — and that to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge.

Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who fail.

Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.

And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, and the weakness of true strength. 

Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, ‘I have not lived in vain.’”

Not bad! And did you notice something about it? It doesn’t say anything about careers or success or reputation. It’s all about character—the only thing that really matters. 

It’s also the only thing we should actually want for our kids, and something we should work our asses off to provide. The rest is up to them.

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What schools are your kids attending? No, not what college or prep school. This is more of a “school of life” question. Charis Denison, a relationship development and organizational specialist who works with a lot of young people, recently observed “At one time or another, every young man will get a letter of admission to ‘dick school.’ The question is, will he drop out, graduate, or go for an advanced degree?”

She happened to be speaking about some of the more toxic elements in cultural masculinity, but the truth of that quote applies to both sexes and pretty much every gender stereotype. It can just as easily be said that every young woman is presented with a letter of admission to an equal number of problematic schools. It’s like every boy and girl, some time around middle school and high school, will get recruiting letters from...

-The school of being entitled and spoiled

-The school of cheating to get ahead

-The school of not caring about anyone but yourself

-The school of materialism

-The school of anxiety and worry

-The school of getting high and killing time

-The school of being an asshole or a liar or an insufferable egomaniac

Unlike college—which is so expensive they’ll need your help to pay for it—parents have less say over the decision to attend any of these schools. Instead, all you can do is try to direct them, try to show them examples of the costs of going one way or another. 

Your job is to help educate them so they can make the right choice about their education. So they decide to drop out rather than graduate, or better yet, not even consider being recruited by any of these toxic schools. And, as always, lead by example, show them proudly which degree is (and isn’t) on your wall. 

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In 1982-83, Jim Valvano coached the North Carolina State basketball team to a National Championship title. The Wolfpack was a mid-ranked team that entered the NCAA tournament looking like anything but a title contender. It was improbable that they’d win their first two games, and even if they did, no one in the world would have put even a dollar on them upsetting #2 ranked Virginia. No one, except Coach Valvano. He believed he and his guys could do it. Even when his guys didn’t. 

The rather unassuming Valvano was known for that unshakeable—borderline irrational even—belief in himself and in his teams. In his coaching career. In his battle with cancer. In every aspect of life, he lived by a quote he heard when he was a young boy, “Every single day, in every walk of life, ordinary people accomplish extraordinary things!” 

Valvano was, himself, an ordinary kid with ordinary parents from an ordinary town where he received an ordinary education. Still, he did extraordinary things in his life. Valvano wasn’t yet out of high school when he first told his dad he had decided what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He was going to be a collegiate basketball coach, he told him. With that high schooler’s naivete, he said, “Dad, I’m going to win a National Championship.” 

Think about how your parents would have reacted if you’d told them that. Maybe you can feel—in your heart, if you’re being honest—how you’d react if you heard your own kids say that. Well, that’s a really hard thing to do bud. Are you sure? Maybe have a backup plan. 

That wasn’t how Mr. Valvano was built. A few days after Jim told his dad about his plans for the future, his dad called him into his bedroom. 

“See that suitcase?” he asked, pointing to a suitcase in the corner of the room. 

Confused, Jim replied, “Yeah, what’s that all about?” 

“I’m packed,” his dad explained. “When you play and win that National Championship I’m going to be there, my bags are already packed.” 

“My father,” Jim would later say in his legendary ESPY speech, “gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.” Stricken with the cancer that would soon after take his life, that belief drove Valvano’s Wolfpack to the national championship in 1983 and it gave him the strength to give that very speech.

We talked recently about not being a minimizer, about how important instilling the growth mindset in our kids is. Our job is to spur our children to conceive of big dreams, to encourage them to go after them, to give them the greatest gift anyone can give another person: belief. If you don’t believe in them, who will? And if they are, in fact, lucky enough to find someone else who believes in them, think about what it will do to your relationship when they are able to compare, when they are able to say, “This total stranger saw my potential, but the people who birthed me and raised me and claimed to love me, just could not.”

You have to give them your belief. You have to be ready to root for them. It’s the greatest gift you can give. It’s the one they, whether they tell you or not, want more than anything.

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Ernest Hemingway was not a great husband or, as often as he should have been, a great father. He had four wives, at least one affair, and was often absent in his family’s life, preferring to spend his time when not writing on big-game hunting, deep sea fishing, bullfighting, and so on. But he was a great writer and a great observer of the human condition. There are few scenes in literature that capture love and loss and the terrifying but also inspiring moment of becoming a father quite like the end of A Farewell to Arms. And nothing quite captures love like this quote from it:

“When you love, you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.”

Isn’t that what we’re doing here as dads? We’re asking that question Tom Hanks expressed almost as beautifully as Hemingway:

“What do you need me to do? You offer up that to them. I will do anything I can possibly do in order to keep you safe. That’s it. Offer that up and then just love them.”

So think about that today. Remind yourself what love is, what your job is. You’re here to serve. Whether that’s driving them around, or just listening to them talk. Your job is to sacrifice. To give what you didn’t get. 

Offer that up. Offer it always. Even if they’re not ready to take it. Even if they don’t understand. Even if you’re not as good at it as you’d like to be. Just keep trying. Keep serving. 

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In early January, Kobe Bryant got a note from a reporter at ESPN. She was working on a story about a moment in Lakers’ history and she wanted to feature Kobe in the story. It’s one of those requests that public figures get all the time. It’s part of their job—in fact, it’s kind of one of the things that attracted them to the job in the first place. To be in the news, to have people want to hear their opinion, to grow their brand. 

How long would it have taken to answer the inquiry? Fifteen minutes? An hour? A few emails back and forth? Who knows. What we do know is how Kobe responded to it, and it’s a response made heartbreakingly sad but also deeply moving considering his tragic death just a few weeks later. 

"Can't right now," Kobe messaged the reporter. "My girls are keeping me busy. Hit me up in a couple of weeks.

How often do you have the discipline to send something like that? How strong are you at putting your family first? How good are your defenses against the endless requests, opportunities, impositions, and obligations that come with your work and with life? It’s so easy to let people steal your time, to let them take you away from the thing that is keeping you busy: your kids. Your family. Your private space. 

Kobe Bryant, tragically, will not get any more time with his kids and they will not get any more time with him. Which is what makes that text he sent such a powerful reminder to us, a final feat of performance left there to inspire those of us continuing in the shadow of his death. Put your family first. Put your kids first. Say that you’re too busy. Say no.

Politely decline. You have other priorities. 

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There is a type of parent out there. Career-wise, they are killing it. They have a good marriage to an income-earning spouse and together they make good money. They live in a great neighborhood in an awesome house. They have good educations. They have smart kids. They go on nice vacations. 

And yet, they are constantly worried. Worried about money. About whether their kids will get into the right school and get the right jobs. About their taxes. About keeping up with the Joneses. About so many things. 

Everything looks great on the outside—and by any objective measure, it is actually great—but they are somehow still angry or anxious on the inside. Sure, there is a lot wrong in the world, and you never know when it could all go away (natural disaster, medical emergency, legal troubles, etc), but at the same time you’d think with how hard they work and all the things that have gone right, that life would at least feel a little easier. That they’d be comfortable. Maybe even...ha

Not so much. Instead, these parents respond to their inner turmoil by trying to exert even greater control over their external environment. Does this dissonance sound familiar? Maybe because you know these people. Perhaps there is a part of you that is these people. But do you know the term that sociologists and political observers have created for them? It’s not a particularly nice one: They’re called dream hoarders.

Dream hoarders are the people who, in an attempt to soothe their own anxieties by securing their station in life and smoothing the path for their children, do things to control the world around them that have the effect of limiting opportunity and mobility for those “beneath them.” Dream hoarders are the NIMBYs (Not In My Back Yard) who oppose the creation of more housing (because it would ruin the character of their neighborhood). They oppose school vouchers and magnet schools from the comfort and safety of their children’s private schools.  They favor legacy admissions standards to colleges over any kind of assistive programs that give the poor and underprivileged a boost. These are the people who complain about taxes directed at funding initiatives to help the greater good...despite being in the 1% or better. These people are immune from most of the real crises that are ravaging their country and the world, and instead turn their own piddly problems into World War III at school board and city planning meetings all across America. They have gotten what’s theirs, and their anxiety about being able to keep it forever has blinded them to the reality that so many others are barely getting by. 

Look, it would be ridiculous to criticize anyone for wanting to pass only advantages and privileges to your kids. That is, of course, the entire point of evolution. That’s why you have worked as hard as you have to get ahead, to build up the life you want. But we have to remember that our kids aren’t going to live in a bubble. They are going to have to make their way in the world—a world that the dream hoarders are increasingly turning into a battlefield of Rich vs. Poor, Us vs. Them. If we want our kids to enjoy the bounty we have worked so hard to give them, if we want them to take advantage of those opportunities in ways that make us proud and make them proud of themselves, then we can’t just think about our kids anymore. 

We have to think about “the children”—as in the neighborhood’s and the city’s and the country’s young people. We can’t hoard from them. We have to share. 

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If you ever hear yourself uttering these words, “How could you have been so stupid?” to your kids—because they just got escorted home by a police officer, because they lost that expensive iPad you gave them, because whatever...

Here’s an answer: The same way you were so stupid when you were their age.

Think about all the dumb stuff you did when you were 10. Or 15. Or 30. Or yesterday. How could you have been so stupid? Skateboarding without a helmet and getting injured when you fell. Speeding when you just got your license and ending up with a ticket. Not studying for that big exam and failing. Drinking too much and getting a nasty hangover. 

The truth was you didn’t really know better, even if you did “know” better, even if people had told you, as you were doing it, not to do it. The only reason you’re able to see now, in retrospect, how dumb you were is because you’ve gotten older. Because you’ve experienced things. Because you experienced doing that dumb thing and now realize how dangerous/unnecessary/ill-advised it actually was. 

So let’s scratch that phrase, that question, along with “How many times do I have to tell you?” from our vocabulary as fathers. Because it is really stupid—and cruel. Focus instead on using this moment, whatever it is that makes you want to say that, as an opportunity to teach. As an opportunity to make them smarter, rather than a chance to make them feel bad. 

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