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

I never really knew I wanted to be a parent.

Not in the “ugh, I hate kids” kind of way—more like wanting a Himalayan salt lamp. Sounds fancy. Glows nice. Promises spiritual growth. Also… high maintenance. Not sure if it’s essential.

But then, one day, my partner and I were in sync. Celestial-alignment, universe-winks-at-you kind of sync.
Boom. Parenthood.
No manual. No refunds.

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

Logic, I told myself—that’s the secret. Give her options. Respect her choices. Encourage critical thinking.
She’d be emotionally intelligent, wildly independent, possibly quoting Marcus Aurelius by age seven.

And for a while... it worked. I was on it.

I worked from home, which sounds noble until you realize it means taking Zoom calls while unclogging glue sticks, managing tantrums, and negotiating which tutu to wear.

Every birthday had a theme.
Multi-tier cakes. Handcrafted cake pops. Me in costume, narrating fairy tales with a dodgy British accent.

At the Christmas fair, while other kids sold lemonade and sad sandwiches, my daughter sold macarons.
Color-coded. Handmade. Gluten-intolerant friendly.
The Parisian patisserie had nothing on us.

Playdates? Homemade pasta. Jungle-themed cookies. Smoothies in mason jars.
I was that dad.
The one who showed up.
For school plays. Dance-offs. Elocution.
I didn’t just attend—I participated. Loudly. Occasionally 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 annual performance review.
Who says, “That’s great… but…”

When did I become the Walking Feedback Form?
The Parent of Constructive Criticism?

It’s not that I stopped loving her. I adore her.
I’m still her biggest fan.
I sign her up for things—not because I expect her to win, but because I want her to find her rhythm. Her joy. Her spark.

She wasn’t a natural athlete, but she trained.
Every other day.
At 5:30 AM.
For four years.
That’s not childhood. That’s Marine Corps prep.

And she didn’t win. Not a ribbon. Not a sticker.
Nothing.

And it stung—not for me—but because I know how effort needs some reward to keep the fire burning.

Then one day… eighth grade. Three medals. District level.
I nearly wept into my protein shake.

Not because she won—
But because I saw her believe she could.

Now I stop parents mid-sentence when they downplay their kids’ wins.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
No. It’s everything.

Growing up is hard.
Parenting?
Is like tightrope walking… over a pit of Legos.

But somewhere, I got stingy with praise.
Not because I’m unimpressed—
But because I want it to mean something.

Because when I say, “I’m proud,” I want her to feel it.

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

Be kind. Be humble. Be resilient.
Listen deeply. Speak gently. Hustle hard.
Know your strengths. Build good habits.
Live your truth.
Oh—and also: do your homework, drink more water, and for the love of god, charge your phone.

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

So now I sit here, pen in hand, wondering—
When did the cake pops turn into critiques?
When did the fairy tale become a footnote?

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll start again.
No themes. No lectures. Just pancakes. And a warm hug.

Maybe 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.”