I Didn’t Have a Parenting Philosophy, So I Made One Up

When our first son was born, I remember standing over his crib like I was supposed to say something important. I had no idea what that something was. So I defaulted to what I knew: I checked his breathing, adjusted the swaddle for the fourth time, and whispered something that probably sounded like a customer service apology.

He blinked up at me with all the judgment of a person who’d just been through the trauma of birth and now had me for a guide.

I didn’t have a parenting philosophy. I had Google. And some vague sense that love and snacks could cover most things.

Sixteen years later, that little swaddled human is now taller than me and mostly communicates in dry wit, Instagram memes, and the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut. His younger brother, now thirteen, has more energy than a double espresso and less boundary awareness than a Labrador in a room full of squirrels.

I adore them both more than I can say. I just also sometimes want to sit in the car for a few extra minutes before going inside. That’s not a contradiction. That’s parenting.

Making It Up As We Go

Some people have parenting philosophies framed on Pinterest boards. Ours sort of… evolved in the wild. One part instinct, one part caffeine, and one part whatever worked last time.

We never sat down and drafted it, but over the years, a kind of family code started to emerge—one line at a time, in different moments, often with different words. Sometimes it comes out as advice. Sometimes as an apology. Sometimes as a look exchanged between my wife and me across a chaotic room.

It isn’t always said directly to the kids. It is lived—in the way we talk to each other, in how we treat people, in what we model even when we aren’t trying to.

Somewhere in all that, these truths started to take shape:

• Be kind, not cutting. It’s okay to be funny. It’s okay to be right. But not if it costs someone else their dignity.
• Be curious, not judgmental. Ask questions. Don’t assume. And for the love of God, don’t become a YouTube comments section.
• Be honest, not brutal. The truth matters. But how you deliver it matters more.
• You can be mad, but you can’t be mean. Anger is okay. Cruelty is not.
• You can be frustrated, but you can’t give up. Especially on people. Especially on yourself.
• You can disagree, but you can’t dehumanize. Not here. Not in this house.

And maybe—bonus truth—before you tell your side of the story, ask yourself:
If I asked the other person for their version of what happened, what would they say?

That one? It’s less dogma, and more of a mirror. But it keeps us honest. With ourselves. And with each other.

Did we say all of these out loud in exactly this way? Probably not. Mostly, they live in the space between words. In how we try (and fail, and try again) to show up for each other.

They aren’t rules. They’re reminders. And like most things in parenting, they’re written in pencil—with plenty of erasing along the way.

Growing Up, All of Us

Here’s something nobody tells you when your kids are little: the physical part of parenting fades. Slowly, quietly, and then all at once.

When they’re small, you carry them everywhere. You hold their hands across parking lots and press kisses into their cheeks like it’s your job—because it is. There are days you feel like you’ve morphed into a climbing wall, a snack dispenser, and a mattress, all in one.

And then—somewhere between learning to tie their shoes and making their own plans—they stop needing to be carried. They grow into their own bodies. Their own opinions. Their own volume settings.

My 16-year-old son is taller than me now. He moves through the house like an old cat—quiet, independent, occasionally emerging for snacks or to deliver a random bit of World War Two trivia. He has a car, technically. It sits in our driveway like a metaphor for the next chapter of independence he hasn’t felt the need to seize just yet. 

My 13-year-old is the opposite: pure motion, pure presence. Curious about everything, especially things that don’t involve him. He enters a room like a group text with notifications turned on. He feels his feelings. Deeply. 

Parenting them now is different. I don’t reach for their hands in parking lots. I reach for shoulder squeezes in passing. Forehead kisses before bed, when they’ll allow it. A quick tousle of hair while they pretend to hate it. I find myself doing it more often now—not less. Not because they need it, but because I do.

There’s something quietly aching and beautiful about the shift—from constant closeness to intentional connection. I don’t carry them anymore, but I still try to stay close. And not just physically.

Because here’s the truth: they’re still becoming who they are. And so am I.

They’re learning to live in the world. I’m learning to let them. 

They’re figuring out who they’re becoming. I’m learning how to meet them there.

We’re all still growing up. 

Together.

The Constant

The hardest part of parenting might be accepting how much of it is temporary.

Phases come and go. Routines change. Schedules shift. Interests rotate out like guest stars. One minute you’re stepping on LEGO bricks, the next you’re discussing AP classes or ordering yet another replacement water bottle. It all changes. Faster than you think. Faster than you’re ready for.

But not everything does.

What I’m learning—what I’m clinging to, some days—is this: I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t even have to always know what I’m doing. I just have to stay. I have to show up. I have to keep reminding them that whatever else changes—however far they drift or how badly they screw up—there is one thing they can count on.

We’re still here.
We still love them.
And we always will.

That’s the constant. Not control. Not certainty.
Just love. On repeat. In every form it takes.

Sometimes that means advice. Sometimes it means silence. Sometimes it means staying up late for the talk they’re finally ready to have. Sometimes it means doing nothing at all except standing in the hallway and making sure they know you’re still there.

We won’t get it right every time.
But they’ll know where to find us.

And that matters more than getting it right.