Vol. 126 - How to Feel Less Alone

(OR) watching another dad fight with his kids.

We’re all different. We’re all the same.

Sometimes, often really, parenting can be a quite lonely endeavor. We feel like we’re doing everything wrong, irreparably fucking our kids up. We yell too much. We discipline too much. We don’t show enough love. We show too much love. We’re too soft. We’re too hard. We’re too gentle. We’re too friendly. We’re not friendly enough. We watch too many screens and give them too much candy. We put too many barriers around them for safekeeping. We don’t allow them to figure out the world for themselves. We’re doing everything wrong and everyone else is doing everything better.

But then, we see another parent going through exactly what we’re going through and we realize that parenting is more or less all the same and kids are more or less all the same and we’re all going through the same exhausting arguments, the same backs-and-forths with our kids.

And suddenly, not only do we feel less alone. We feel like maybe, just maybe, we’re not doing such a bad job after all.

As you probably already know, I was in Norway a few weeks ago. As I was there for work, I was alone, sans kids. And often, when we’re alone, sans kids, we’re able to notice things around us with a bit more clarity. Probably because we’re not yelling at our kids to keep their fucking shoes on or to stop smacking their sister in the head.

My last night in Norway, I took a bus from one side of Oslo to the other, en route to a floating sauna on the Oslofjord (which, apparently, is a thing). A few stops after I boarded the bus, a father climbed aboard with his two young boys. They were close in age and very well could have been twins. As they were all olive-skinned, with dark hair, and speaking perfect Spanish, I assumed they were from Spain. But who knows.

The dad plopped each of his boys in two open seats and stood beside them as the bus rumbled to life. No sooner did we start plodding through Oslo’s city streets did the boys start acting up. Now, my Spanish is remedial at best. But I could tell with ease that the father was quietly yelling through gritted teeth (you know exactly the kind of yelling I’m talking about) for his kids to calm down, to stop kicking the seat in front of them, and to keep their hands to themselves.

His anger grew as his boys continued to ignore him, his jaw clenched, and his commands grew more stern with each passing turn. Finally, he said something that I understood in no uncertain terms. Finally, he pulled the power move that all modern parents keep tucked into our back pockets.

“No shows when we get home.”

Waterworks.

Both boys started sobbing, apologizing profusely, promising their father they would stop.

No dice.

“No. Shows.” Dad repeated.

The boys cried until I got off the bus and I can only assume they kept crying after that. I enjoyed watching this transpire more than I like to admit. And, as I did, I wondered if I was being a dick. If there was some element of schadenfreude as, there I was, childfree, carefree, taking my sweet ass time to go chill in a sauna. And there this father was, struggling mightily against the immoveable object and unstoppable force that is the attitude of little children. But then I realized it was anything but. It was the connection that I suddenly felt to this father, even if he didn’t realize that I was paying attention to his struggle. It was the idea that, even thousands of miles from my home and my babies, I realized that we, as dads, are anything but alone.