“He’s just a kid. Don’t drag him into politics.”
“Tell that to the kid who just asked me why billionaires exist and also what 69 means.”
“Okay, but still. Childhood should be magical and innocent.”
“Right. And while we’re at it, let’s teach him how to ride a unicorn to the park.”
Somewhere between ABCs and ICE raids, my son decided he wanted answers. And honestly? Same.
Welcome to the modern parenting paradox: raise an informed, empathetic child… without accidentally asking them to shoulder what we can barely carry.
One day, they’re scribbling fart and poop all over their desks. The next, they’re arguing about climate change and calling each other “uncultured swine.” (Thank you, Toy Story, for keeping the insults at least mildly wholesome and entertaining.)
Sure, some of it’s mimicking Mom.
Like the time we took a sharp turn going way too fast whilst he was mid sip of Gatorade, ended up wearing half the bottle, and shouting, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Not at me. Not at anyone. Just… at existence. And honestly? Same.
They’re parroting what they hear:YouTube, siblings, school, friends, and yes, me. But some of it? That’s real. That’s them. They feel the weight of the world and they want a say. They want to matter. They want to be heard.
And that’s where I get stuck.
I don’t want to indoctrinate my son.
I don’t want to shut him down.
I don’t want to raise a parrot.
I want to raise a person.
A kid who knows how to disagree without dehumanizing.
A kid who can sit with discomfort without shutting down.
A kid who hears something outrageous and doesn’t just echo it, but asks why.
But let’s be real…
Most days, I’m modeling that with the grace of a pig trying to parallel park a combine harvest tractor.
Some days I’m patient. Thoughtful.
Most days, I snap at the news before I realize he’s listening.
Or I roll my eyes at the reel.
This isn’t a post about the perfect parenting plan; it’s mostly a collection of whoops.
Of can’t sleep regrets.
Of trying again, even when I’d rather hide in the bath with a bottle of wine.
I need him to be kind, even when the world isn’t.
I need him to be curious, even when it’s easier to shut down.
I need him brave enough to speak up, and resilient enough to keep going when it doesn’t go well.
What if the whoops are the whole point?
What if all the mess ups are how we get anywhere worth going?
Maybe they don’t need a perfect parent.
There is hope in the whoops.
And that showing up with love—even messy, mid swear, Gatorade soaked love—yeah, that is enough.
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