The Daily Dad

When you read parenting books, it’s hard not to get the distinct sense that there is a right way to parent. That being a dad (or a mom) means following a set of processes—backed up and confirmed by research—and that to do anything else is to deviate and fail. We think the same thing about teachers too: Here is how the best teachers operate, so be like that. 

But the truth is that it’s all relative. There is no right way because every child is different, every parent is different, every situation is different. Think about the story of the prodigal son—it’s a lesson about a bunch of things, but one of the subtler lessons is that different kids require different treatment. The father in that story wasn’t being unfair. He was being what each of his sons needed. 

Recently, we asked the author James Frey (yes, that James Frey—the brilliant and controversial novelist; read Katerina or Bright Shiny Morning if you haven’t yet) what he’s learned about fatherhood, and he actually told us something pretty similar:

Being a Dad is an ongoing process of learning and adjusting and adapting. That for each kid, at each stage of that kid's life, you have to adjust and learn. I have three kids. Two girls and a boy in the middle. Being a Dad, to me, isn't like being a drill sergeant. There is no single way to handle each child...I don't want them all to be the same person. They are each unique, with their own personalities and strengths and struggles. And they are radically different at different ages. And that requires me to constantly be learning how to best raise them.

It’s great advice and worth thinking about today. You have to be flexible. You have to be willing to approach each situation as a distinct set of circumstances and conditions. There is no “right way” to do things, but there is always a “right thing” to do in each situation. 

Adjust until you find it. 

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You’ve told them a million times. You told them why they need to study before their test, and they didn’t and they came home with a D. You told them about how their effort is the only thing they control in sports, and here they are, complaining—after refusing to take their training seriously—about why their friend gets more playing time. You’ve told them about manners. You’ve told them about not hitting their brother. You’ve told them why it’s important to keep their room clean.

And yet, and yet and yet...Here you are. Looking at a dirty room. At bad grades. How many times do I have to tell you?, you hear yourself say. Are you deaf?

Here’s a better question, one that might stop you cold: How many times have you been told? Not when you were a kid, but lately. About the importance of eating better. Of the relationship between exercise and weight. About how gross it is to bite your nails. To save for retirement. To read that important book. To update your operating system. 

And yet, and yet and yet...You’re still doing them. Or not doing them. You got a speeding ticket last month that cost you $250 and here you are still driving faster than you should. 

So why don’t you cut them a little break? Or at least be a little more understanding? Just because it’s clear what someone is supposed to do (or not do) doesn’t mean it’s easy. Especially when you’re a kid. Especially when your whole life is people throwing commands and demands at you. So relax. Be kind. Be patient. And maybe try to inspire them by showing them how it’s hard for you too—but you’re still trying. 

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Ted Williams was not a good father—at least not for most of his life. He was a great baseball player, but for a long time, he was a really selfish and ruthless person. He came from a horrible, abusive childhood himself and struggled to find the ability to love and care about anyone, including himself. It was like his own childhood prepared him to be a kind of lone wolf, a machine designed to do one thing really well (and caring about other people was not that thing). 

If you haven’t read Wright Thompson’s insanely beautiful profile of Williams’ daughter, Claudia Williams, you should. It starts off dark and depressing, but by the end it has enough hope in it to inspire even the most hard-boiled and reluctant fathers. Because, over time, due to the incredible efforts of his children, Ted Williams started to change. 

“What’s incredible as an observer was to watch him fall in love with his kids,” a friend says in the profile Thompson says in the piece about Williams.”The vulnerability of having love for your children. You could see it just gnaw. It was everything against his grain to succumb to this outside influence of children. Love had control over him. He felt vulnerable. A vulnerability he had never had in his life.” And that was starting to show itself in little hints, whether it was entries in Williams’ fishing journal, where for the first time he began to write about the kids he had long ignored or in the signed poster his daughter had found under piles of memorabilia after her father’s death, that just said, ‘To my beautiful daughter. I love you. Dad.’”

You have that vulnerability now. Those same powerful forces are gnawing at you too, hopefully, and making progress on that tough exoskeleton you developed to protect yourself. You can let this change you, let this make you better. You can even begin—no matter how far you are down the road, as Williams was—start to make up for mistakes you might have made earlier in fatherhood. 

It’s never too late.

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The great physicist Richard Feynman had a father who instilled his brilliant son with an interesting perspective about the world. Sitting down, he would lay the newspaper out on the table and ask his boy questions about what they saw and read. Once, when they came upon a photo of the Pope blessing a group of believers, Richard’s father asked his son if he knew the difference between the Pope and his followers. And then, before Richard could answer, he said, “The difference is the hat. He is wearing a hat.” His dad would repeat the same exercise whether it was a photo of a general with stars on their collar or a wealthy executive with an expensive suit. 

After years in the uniform business, Feynman’s father knew that people were people, whatever clothes their job dressed them in. He wanted his son to realize that nobody was better than him, that everybody was equal, no matter who they were and what they had accomplished. 

You can imagine this gave his young son a lot of confidence, confidence that your children could benefit from. Just because other kids live in bigger houses or have more illustrious last names, does that mean they are better? Just because other kids do or don’t wear glasses, do or don’t have their own car, do or don’t go on weekend ski trips, do or don’t receive financial aid, what does that mean? It means nothing. If you want to raise a kid that challenges the status quo, that fulfills their potential, that looks at the world without prejudice, teach them that. 

The other side of that lesson for Feynman was humility and it’s why you should teach it to your kids too. Feynman didn’t think his Nobel Prize made him special—in fact, he was reluctant to accept it. Because he disliked the pomp and circumstance and he knew that accolades don’t make you any more or less right. He didn’t need a special hat to feel good about himself, and he didn’t like getting the attention—when the work was what mattered. 

Nobody is better than your kids and your kids are not better than anyone else. The sooner they realize that, the better.

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Kids are crazy, right? When they’re hungry, they are rude and difficult to manage. They are demanding and seem incapable, most of the time, of doing anything for themselves. They are totally ungrateful for what people do for them. In fact, a lot of the time they are completely unaware that anyone exists in the world but themselves. 

This is not new, obviously. In the 1600s, the French satirist Jean de La Bruyère captured the timelessness of the selfishness of the young. “Children are overbearing,” he wrote, “supercilious, passionate, envious, inquisitive, egotistical, idle, fickle, timid, intemperate, liars, and dissemblers; they laugh and weep easily, are excessive in their joys and sorrows, and that about the most trifling objects; they bear no pain, but like to inflict it on others.” It’s all true. 

And so is the kicker with which he ended his observation, “...already they are men.”

The point being: Before you complain about how selfish and crazy your kids are, we ought to look in the mirror. Don’t we get hangry? Don’t we take people for granted? Don’t we alternate between elation and frustration? Don’t we get excited by trivial things? Aren’t we incapable of regulating our emotions and our desires? And haven’t we had a lot more time to practice these things too?

Cut them a break. You cut yourself plenty.

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Who among us is not insecure? We look around and see people who make more money. Who have bigger houses. Who have accomplished more than we have. This insecurity is compounded by social media, but it is also timeless. There’s a story that Julius Caesar once stood in front of a statue of Alexander the Great. At the age Caesar was at that moment, Alexander the Great had already conquered the world. By comparison, Caesar had done almost nothing. 

While there might be some motivational benefits to this insecurity, it’s probably not the best way to live. And does anyone think they do good work while telling themselves they are not enough? Might fullness and confidence actually be a better place—cognitively, creatively, emotionally—to approach your work and your life from than craving? You don’t make great work feeling like a piece of shit. You make great work knowing you are capable of making great work. 

In any case, the Catholic activist—and possibly future saint—Dorothy Day had a good observation that we can think about today as a way of putting some of those insecurities to bed. Because whatever you do, wherever you are in your career and life, there is something you should be taking great satisfaction and meaning in—there is something you should be incredibly proud of yourself for: the person(s) you have created. As she writes:

“If I had written the greatest book, composed the greatest symphony, painted the most beautiful painting or carved the most exquisite figure, I could not have felt the more exalted creator than I did when they placed my child in my arms...No human creature could recieve or contain so vast a flood of love and joy as I felt after the birth of my child. With this came the need to worship, to adore.” 

That feeling, that feeling you felt the first day you held your children. The feeling you feel when they run into your arms and call you daddy. Or when they come into your room to ask for advice. Or when you sit across the table from them and watch them eat. That feeling—the pride, the love, the connection—this is the feeling to carry with you. 

You made that. You were the exalted creator of that. It might not be a billion dollar tech startup, it might not be a Grammy-winning album or the Mona Lisa, but it’s one hell of a something. And it’s only the beginning. 

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We talked before about how MacArthur had a kind of scheduled morning craziness with his son Arthur, who would enter his room promptly at 7am and pummel his father awake. Then together they’d sing songs—old army songs Douglas had taught him—with Arthur still slurring his R’s—while dad shaved and got ready for work.

As William Manchester observes in his amazing biography of the complicated man, MacArthur believed that his son was the only one who appreciated his singing. “He was wrong,” Manchester wrote. “Everyone around him appreciated it because they saw the changes the boy had wrought in him.” MacArthur, whose only child was born when he was 58, and was already one of the most powerful men in the army, had always been active and firm. But with a young boy running around, he became alive in a way that he had never been before. He laughed. He loved. He let his guard down. 

Manchester beautifully captures what fatherhood has done for countless fathers for all time: 

A snapshot of the three MacArthurs, taken on the boy’s third birthday, shows Arthur in a sailor suit, his mother in a flower-trimmed frock, and his father in khaki. The General’s expression can only be described as adoring. Acclaim, achievements, decorations, and high rank had come to him early. Now, in his sixties, he had found serenity.

You have been given a wonderful gift—actually that’s not quite right, you have helped create a wonderful gift. Now you have to give yourself over to it. You have to truly accept it and let it into your heart. Not just once, for the first time, when they are young and so irresistibly cute, but over and over again as you both get older. 

Let it keep making you better. Let it give you serenity. Have fun. Get crazy. Be adoring. Relax your guard. Keep changing. You deserve it and so does everyone around you.

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We live in a world awash with ego. We see it every day. We can see the ego of our boss, and how it has turned the office against them. We can see ego in politicians and professional athletes. We can see it in our kid’s teacher, perhaps, when they get in some pissing match with another parent or are threatened by a precious student. As they get older, we can even see ego in our own kids—thinking they can ace a test without studying or advance in sports without practicing.

The laundry list of out of control egos is easy to write. But it’s interesting to think that putting it together may in fact be our own ego distracting us from ourselves. Because by focusing on the problems other people’s egos are causing we excuse ourselves from looking in the mirror at our own.

Today and every day, dads should take a moment to just think about where ego is holding them back. Is the power struggle with your teenager actually over anything important or is this just you demanding to be in control? “You can’t learn that which you think you already know,” Epictetus once said. Well, what things are you holding yourself back from learning because you’re a know-it-all? The pissing contest you got into with a teacher? The pissing contest you’re still in with your dad? The hours you work, the money you spend, the car you drive—is there ego tied up in any of these? Any chance it’s warping your priorities? Any chance it’s getting you into trouble? 

Ego is the enemy. Always. Of everything, but especially of the things that really matter in this life: happiness, a family that gets along, improving, contentment, forgiveness, stillness.

You know it. So stop thinking about other people and work on yourself. 

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If you haven’t seen the fascinating Netflix documentary about Rachel Dolezal, a troubled woman who pretended to be black when she’s actually white, you should. It’s not worth getting into the controversial racial issues that the documentary brings up, but it’s worth watching them in the documentary, since it shows them in all their very human complexity and contradiction. What is worth noting here is a comment that one of Rachel’s adopted younger brothers (who she ended up raising herself) says about their missionary foster parents. 

He says something like: The one job of parents is to give their children a childhood they don’t have to spend years of therapy processing. 

Certainly that’s a low bar. The only lower bar is literally keeping them alive. But it’s worth bringing up because of how many parents fail to meet it, even as they succeed in other ways. Sure, you helped turn your son into a professional football player, but to do it, you cultivated an insatiable desire to win that prevents him from ever enjoying those victories. Or you got your daughter into Harvard, but you were so strict and demanding that her poor self-esteem makes her tolerate the worst kind of people in relationships. Your kids get one life. What kind of life are you raising them to have? They get one sense of self. Are you giving them a kind or a harsh one?

The world would be a better place if dads took the time to actively think about what the ramifications of their decisions are going to be. Imagine your son or your daughter on a therapist’s couch in the future. Of course they’re going to be talking about you—that’s almost all anyone talks about in therapy. But perhaps that image might stop you from having that affair, it might make you go a little easier on them, it might help you respond better in that critical situation when they come to you and say, “Mom, Dad, I have to tell you guys something. This isn’t easy but...”

Do you need to have that argument with your spouse? Can you let it go? Why not do something about your anger problem? (More on that here). Or your drinking problem? Or your weight problem? Maybe you don’t need to push your religious beliefs so hard? Maybe you can give them space to explore their own political leanings instead of belittling them? And at the same time, maybe if you were a little less busy and a little more attentive, maybe you’d stop missing all their cries for help or that problem that’s been brewing for some time?

Your job is not to make them rich. Not to make them smarter than everyone else. All those trappings are extra. What your real job is, is to give them a childhood they don’t need therapy to get over. Start there.

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You might not think of Tom Hanks as a father, but he is one. He had four kids, two from his first marriage, Colin and Elizabeth, and two from his second, Chet and Truman. You might not think of Tom Hanks as someone who messes up, or someone who would struggle at something as wholesome as being a dad, but again, you’d be wrong. A recent New York Times profile spent some time talking with Hanks about fatherhood, and the reality of what it was like to have his first two kids while he was still an up and coming actor. Colin and Elizabeth were growing up while their father was still trying to get parts, trying to make a living and pay the rent, as Hanks puts it. But by the time Chet and Truman were born, he was long past that. They grew up with a dad who was much more secure, who didn’t have to audition anymore, who was famous and beloved. 

Does he feel guilty about some of those mistakes? Absolutely. How has it affected his parenting style? It’s made him much more understanding, much more patient, and ultimately, much more responsible. As he explained: 

It isn’t easy being a parent, not for any of us. Somewhere along the line, I figured out, the only thing really, I think, eventually a parent can do is say I love you, there’s nothing you can do wrong, you cannot hurt my feelings, I hope you will forgive me on occasion, and 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.

Beautiful, yeah? And humanizing, too? Look, if you think you’re not going to mess up as a Dad, you’re in for a rude surprise. If you think the struggles you’re going through in your career, in your marriage, in your life are not going to affect your kids, you’re being naive. But you can’t whip yourself about that. All you can do is try to learn from your failings and keep going. You can keep showing up and asking, “What do you need me to do?” You can offer that. You can love them.

And if you keep doing it, you’ll get some of the flashes of a happy family that Tom Hanks talks about in the article, the kind that make life worth living.

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