I often joke that I’ve “failed” as a parent. It’s a line I throw out casually, but the truth behind it is anything but lighthearted. I know I’m not a perfect dad. I have plenty of room to grow, and I’ve made my share of mistakes. But from the moment my sons were born, they became the center of my universe. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to give them the best life possible.
I’ve always tried to teach them responsibility and independence. But I also know I’ve fallen short—especially by doing too much for them, even as they’ve grown older. When they leave parmesan cheese scattered across the kitchen counter, I clean it up. I know the responsible thing would be to have them do it themselves. But I step in anyway, out of habit, out of love, out of a desire to make their lives easier.
Major life events tend to magnify this instinct. During my divorce, when our family was splitting apart, my focus narrowed to my sons. I wanted to shield them from the pain, to make sure they were okay. I stopped pushing chores and started catering to their needs. I did everything I could to make a difficult situation feel less heavy—for them, at least.
And when I lost Alex earlier this year, I found myself doing it all over again with Jason. I wanted to show him—every day—that he is loved, that he matters, that he is not alone. I was drowning in guilt, wondering if I had shown enough of that to Alex while he was here. So I gave Jason everything I could. I took away responsibilities, gave in to requests, tried to fill the silence with love.
I know that in doing so, I may not be preparing him for the future as well as I should. I know that giving too much can sometimes mean giving too little in terms of life skills and resilience. And that’s where the feeling of “failure” creeps in.
But here’s the thing: even now, with my sons in their twenties, I still see the little boys they once were. I still feel their hugs, their tiny hands in mine, the weight of them in my lap as we read bedtime stories. That never goes away.
So when Jason asks me to go with him to get a haircut, or pick up snacks, or get his car’s oil changed—I go. I jump at the chance. Because I know these moments are fleeting. I know that soon, he won’t need me for these things. And I won’t have the chance to say yes.
I live in that tension—between wanting to be a good parent and fearing I’m not preparing them enough for what’s ahead. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I have no regrets about loving them fully and unconditionally, with everything I have.
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