“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”
James Baldwin
A big theme in my life—one that keeps me awake at night and possibly gives me indigestion—is the pursuit of the invisible. Not in a spooky ghost-hunting sense, though that might be easier to explain at parties. No, I’m talking about the invisible version of myself—the elusive, slightly better me that exists somewhere just out of reach, always two steps ahead, leaving behind only a trail of self-help books and half-hearted New Year’s resolutions.
And then, there are the invisible mysteries of life itself—like why socks disappear in the dryer or how children manage to smear sticky substances on things you haven’t even touched. And, of course, the invisible power of love that supposedly guides my life, though sometimes it feels more like it’s just nudging me gently into the corner to take a nap.
In many ways, “the invisible” is woven into everything. And naturally, parenting is no different.
Let’s be honest: being a dad is less about knowing what you’re doing and more about pretending you do while Googling things like “How to get permanent marker off countertops.” It’s basically on-the-job training with a very demanding boss who insists on PB&J at 7 a.m. and somehow manages to convince you that you’re good at your job. But when it comes to the future—when it comes to the serious business of turning these tiny humans into decent adults—I have a sneaking suspicion that I can’t just wing it.
Because here’s the kicker: I need to be the man I want my boys to become. (No pressure or anything.)
See, we’re not really raising children. We’re raising adults in disguise—tiny, sticky adults who think ketchup is a vegetable. And this terrifying, awe-inspiring duty begins with me. It’s not about telling them to grow up with integrity or kindness or whatever desirable trait society values these days. It’s about being those things, living them out, and hoping my sons pick up on it between episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba.
This isn’t about titles, wealth, or the shiny markers of success (though, let’s be real, I wouldn’t turn down a “World’s Best Dad” mug if someone offered). It’s about character. It’s about the way I treat the guy who cuts in front of me in traffic or the person who hands me my overly complicated coffee order. It’s about showing them what it looks like to be decent to others, even when no one’s looking. Especially then.
The blueprint I want to pass on is less about being the next Steve Jobs (again, no pressure, kids) and more about being someone who quietly tries to do good in the world. Someone who’s committed to making things a little better, a little kinder, a little less of a dumpster fire than they were before.
Of course, I will inevitably mess this up. Regularly. There will be countless times when I trip over my own ideals and fail to embody the virtues I so desperately hope my sons will absorb. Maybe they’ll catch me on a particularly bad day when I curse at the printer for the third time, or they’ll witness me devour a bag of Doritos in one sitting—hardly role model behavior. But the thing is, even in those moments of failure, the responsibility to be better still rests squarely on my shoulders (heavy, like that printer that never works when you need it to).
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not about getting it right all the time. It’s about letting my kids see me mess up and then get back up, Doritos and all. It’s about showing them that stumbling isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a slightly embarrassing part of the process. As long as I keep learning, keep trying to be better, and—when all else fails—know how to laugh at myself, I think I’ll be okay.
This whole business of raising future humans is, by far, the biggest challenge I’ve ever taken on. It’s exhausting, sure. It’s the kind of responsibility that makes you second-guess your life choices, but it’s also the most important work I’ll ever do. And it’s a pretty solid excuse to eat that extra handful of Doritos when no one’s watching.
In the end, it all comes back to that pursuit of the invisible—that unseen something that holds my life together, even when it feels like it’s hanging by a thread. My legacy to my boys won’t be the stuff they can see or hold in their hands. It’ll be the parts of me they carry with them long after I’m gone—the lessons, the love, the character I’ve tried (with varying degrees of success) to pass on.
It’s like being a gardener, nurturing the invisible seeds of goodness inside them, trusting that, eventually, they’ll grow into decent, flawed, irreplaceable human beings. Men of goodness. Wonderful, fallible, slightly chaotic—but in my eyes, infinitely precious—men of goodness.
