From The Office to Parenthood: Teaching the Usual in Unusual Times

I’ve always loved a really good story. Relationship stories especially—they have such a personal flair. The charming back-and-forth of uncertainty mixed with anticipation is so delicious when told well by a gifted storyteller. Listening to one of those stories, you don’t just hear it—you feel it.

I don’t know if I have that kind of story. While things have turned out well, I remain uncertain about the steps between the beginning and now. I don’t really know how I got here.

I’m married—happily so—to a woman who brings me a deep and profound sense of joy. And yet, I’ve always found relationships exceedingly strange. I never quite understood how a person goes from watching episodes of The Office to raising children together. The steps in that transformation have always felt unclear to me—despite having taken them.

Now, adding to that mystery, I find myself responsible for three souls who will one day walk that same bewildering road. Knowing how confusing life has been for me, I try to stay aware of the challenges of the modern world. I hope, in my own imperfect way, to offer some guidance as they embark—unknowingly—on a journey full of shifting expectations and uncertain rules.

More than anything, I want them to have a really good story of their own—the kind of romantic edifice they can build their lives around.

I think fondly of progressive ideas. Morality aside, I believe social conformity should be light. People should be free to diverge from what’s considered “normal.” And yet, we are bombarded with conflicting messages. Women are handed goals that often clash with their desires and priorities. Men are given a confusing palette of expectations, many of them contradictory. The result is often a kind of emotional tailspin—for someone who just wants to share a hamburger and watch a movie with someone they love.

There are basic truths about male and female character that we ought to acknowledge. When I had a daughter, I was determined not to shape her into something garishly feminine. And yet, for her first Christmas, my mother bought her a doll. I was bothered—until I reminded myself that she might one day give birth, and that some identification with children might serve her well. I’ve encouraged her to see the beauty in motherhood, but I’ve also made it clear: that road is hers to choose—or not.

Boys, on the other hand, tend toward violence. Also, the sky is blue—another observation of the obvious. When my second son was born, he and his brother took to wrestling constantly. My wife expressed concern. I told her, “That’s what boys do.” My daughter joins in now too, but their appetite for roughhousing far exceeds hers. So I’ve had to talk with my sons about violence—both the kind they might express and the kind they might encounter.

I take a passive stance on violence—meaning, it should be avoided vigorously. Still, I’ve watched both my sons surpass their mother in strength. I coach them constantly on the responsibility that comes with that power. My daughter, influenced by media, once told me she didn’t need a man to protect her. I gently reminded her that nature has made men, on average, bigger, stronger, and faster. She may not need a man—but ignoring the potential benefit of one is shortsighted.

I’ve tried to pass on the value of family—its importance, its messiness, and the hope that it might lead them one day to children of their own. I’ve offered them faith, hoping it will instill kindness, forgiveness, and universal compassion. I’ve emphasized the necessity of personal growth—and there’s no better crash course in growth than raising another human being.

I’ve tried to model humility—occasionally yielding my authority to affirm their agency. I’ve defended their mother when necessary, showing that a man’s first duty is to protect his partner. I’ve taught them that love begins, above all else, in friendship. They see my wife and me laugh, play, and giggle. I’ve offered myself as a guide—someone who understands people and wants to help them do the same.

But I’m also aware that my role in their lives must be permitted. It cannot be demanded. It must be earned.

So I try—daily—to earn their trust, in the hope that when they step out to stake their place in this world, they’ll do so with wisdom: the ability to recognize peace in others, and the discernment to choose partners worth working hard for.

There are no easy answers in life. But pretending I have nothing to offer would be a lie.

I’ve known them since they came screaming into this world. I’ve been present for every moment since. I am the proud owner of a healthy marriage.

Bring on the future.
My kids will be ready.
…I hope.

Teach them how to say goodbye

I remember telling him goodbye and that I loved him.
Hearing the screen door slam behind him, he walked out of my life forever.
That moment has always stayed with me.

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Several years ago, the musical Hamilton took the world by storm. I’ve always loved music for its storytelling power, but this was something different. Not only did the show sell out almost instantly, but there was a ticket lottery just to get the chance to buy a seat. It wasn’t just a hit—it was a cultural moment.

Like so many others, I gave the music a listen. In the final days of the CD era, I bought the soundtrack and played it in my car. Hamilton tells the story of Alexander Hamilton, one of America’s founding fathers. I was smitten—not just by the music, but by the history, which has always felt to me like the most relatable and real kind of story.

I found myself drawn to George Washington. A man of great humility, he led the country through revolution and into its fragile beginnings. And then—remarkably—he stepped down. He gave up power. One line from the musical hit me hard:
“We’ll teach them how to say goodbye.”

Washington understood that knowing when to leave—and how—is its own kind of wisdom. One of the final paragraphs from his Farewell Address struck me as especially moving:

"Though in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest."

Ever since I first read those words, I’ve seen them as a lesson in parenting. Inevitably, we must say goodbye—and teach our children how to do the same. And when that time comes, we hope our flaws are overshadowed by our devotion, and that the burdens we’ve passed on are, by God’s grace, light enough for them to carry.

That story I began with—that was my final goodbye to my father. He was heading into surgery. Everyone around me said it was nothing serious. I treated it casually. I said goodbye lightly and coolly, without weight.
I go back to that moment often. I wonder what else I could’ve said. What would’ve lifted the burden I’ve carried since?

Life offered me a second chance to answer that question.

With my father gone, I clung to the only other man I had left in my life—my grandfather. He was sweet, intelligent, kind-hearted. We spent hours together, and he filled my heart with warmth. I gave that warmth back to him, and he understood fully what he meant to me. Yet when he passed, I wasn’t left with the comfort of closure. Instead, I felt the deep absence of the peaceful space he created for me with his presence.

So I’m left with this lingering question:
How do I teach my children how to say goodbye?

This thought lives with me every day. In parenting, I try to be deeply honest with my children. When I lead with a heavy hand, I explain myself—not to be excused, but so they don’t carry unnecessary resentment. When they hurt me, I tell them—not to guilt them, but to show myself humbled, trusting in their kind nature to redeem me from the pain.

In thought, word, and deed, I try to prepare them for the day I leave—when a slamming door might echo behind me.

This leaves me anchored in a quiet, persistent melancholy I can’t quite shake.

Still, in my devotion to them, I find hope. Like Washington, I pray that the “faults of incompetent ability will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.”

But I am not George Washington.
I don’t know how to say goodbye.
That’s the truth.

What I do know is this: I have laid my heart bare. In the deepest places of love and devotion, I’ve never failed to let my children know what they mean to me. Other children may take better vacations, have better toys, live in nicer homes—but I take comfort in this:

No child will ever be more evidently, unmistakably loved.