I Was the Perfect Parent. Until I Wasn’t.

I never dreamed of being a parent.

Not in a “kids are gross” way—just like wanting a Himalayan salt lamp. Glows nice. Promises spiritual growth. Probably needs maintenance. Not sure it’s essential.

But then one day, my partner and I were in sync. Celestial-alignment, universe-nods kind of sync.
Boom—parenthood.
No manual. No refunds.

I didn’t aim to be a good parent. I aimed to be Yoda.
Calm. Wise. Speaks in logic. Bakes banana bread.

Logic was my parenting superpower. Give her choices. Respect her voice.
She’d be independent, emotionally aware—maybe quoting Stoic philosophy by age seven.

And for a while… it worked.

I was that dad. Birthday themes. Handcrafted cake pops. Dad jokes and Dodgy British accents.
Christmas fairs with macarons while other kids sold sandwiches.
Smoothies in mason jars. Homemade pasta.
I showed up. For everything. Loudly. With props.

But somewhere between the glitter and the healthy snacks…
I became that dad.

The one who sighs at missing socks. Who gives feedback like he’s running an appraisal.
Who says, “That’s great… but—”

When did I become the Walking Feedback Form?

I still love her. I still cheer loudest.
I sign her up for things not to win, but to grow.

She trained for years. At 5:30 AM. For a sport she wasn’t even good at.
She lost. Again and again. Until eighth grade—three medals. District level.
I wept into my protein shake.

Not because she won.
But because she believed she could.

But somewhere, I got stingy with praise.
Not because I don’t feel it—
But because I want it to matter.

I’ve stopped expecting from the world.
But from her? I expect everything.

To be kind. To listen. To hustle. To hydrate. And yes—for the love of god—to charge her phone.

I want the world for her.
But sometimes I forget to give her me.

So maybe tomorrow, I’ll start again.

No themes. No feedback forms. Just pancakes. And a hug.
And I’ll tell her I’m proud. Not because she did something.
But because she’s her.

Because that’s the thing about parenting:

You never really know when you’ve nailed it.
But you always know when you’ve baked too many cupcakes…
and forgotten to smile…
and say—
“I’m proud.”