THE ALCHEMY OF PARENTAL ANXIETY

By: Justin P. McCarthy   |   June 24, 2021

It’s a blustery late-May evening. I’m standing on the blacktop at Bel Aire Elementary School, wearing an adult Cub Scouts uniform. We could never quite get the “Assistant Den Leader” patch to stick right, so it’s a few degrees off-center. The back of the pin holding my nametag keeps poking into one of my ribs, and I’m bobbing foot-to-foot to keep two uncooperative lumbar vertebrae from sending a jolt of pain down my leg.

Despite all this, I’m smiling, as today Jack and many of his closest friends graduate from five years as Cub Scouts to join Tiburon’s Boy Scouts troop. Scouting has helped my son grow more patient, altruistic and comfortable with himself—he has come a long way and I am so, so proud of him. I steep in the ebullience of this sentiment for a good minute-and-a-half as the Boy Scouts leader talks up the virtues and opportunities of scouting: the camping, the camaraderie, the leadership development.

Then, subtly but persistently, inevitably, doubt slinks in to nudge my untrammeled joy aside: Was I a good father? Had I done enough to support my boy? We’d gotten through most of the requirements each year, but we’d scarcely touched the optional activities. Jack’s cars didn’t win more than a handful of heats at the Pinewood Derby. He probably couldn’t recite the Scout Oath or Scout Law without help.

This pattern repeats at intervals: Ali gets a base hit in softball, and it’s, “We should play catch more.” Claire soaks up books and shows on geology and dinosaurs, and, in my head, “I’m not nurturing her passions enough. We should be outside digging every day.” Jack tests for a new belt in his martial arts class, passes, and I think, “I really should have gotten him to practice harder.”

Despite a relentless string of positive indicators, I remain persistently skeptical of the quality of my parenting. That my own father was seldom present and less often participatory likely contributes. I greet the approach of Father’s Day with ambivalence, as it surfaces and spotlights these feelings. I know my concerns are largely irrational—all three kids are, objectively, thriving—but knowing that doesn’t help. How do I get past this?

The author Jody Picoult famously comforted “real mothers” everywhere when she wrote, “The fact that you worry about being a good mother means you already are one.” Let’s excuse Picoult’s incidental sexism in excluding fathers from this draught of reassuring succor and assume her wisdom applies across genders.

Fine: It’s one thing to pat ourselves on our backs and salve our consciences by reminding ourselves we are probably doing an OK job, because we’re concerned we might not be. It’s quite another to redirect the energy we’ve historically spent worrying toward being the best, most present parents we can be—to alchemize our anxiety into improvement. Here are a few ways to start:

GO EASY ON YOURSELF

You’re never going to be the perfect parent. The people you see and think, “She’s the perfect parent!” aren’t perfect either. This is all a bit of a mess and we all need to do the best we can. Your kids don’t need perfect—they need you.

IT’S NOT A COMPETITION

Do you compare yourself negatively against other parents you meet? How about a reframe? Other parents are not there to facilitate your critical self-judgment—but they can inspire you. Parenting is never zero-sum. If someone else does something better than you, just adapt their idea yourself and your kids can benefit, too!

FOCUS

You don’t have to be good at everything. If you find you love building LEGOs with your kids, but struggle with spelling, that you enjoy being outdoors with them but have a hard time organizing crafts at home, play to your strengths. It’s not defeatist to look to spouses, partners, friends, family, teachers and others to complement our skills.

I might never fully stop stressing over whether or not I’m a good parent, but at least I can channel some of that worry into becoming a better one.

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