Drew Thomas Humphrey

It’s funny how age and expertise are so often inversely related. You’d think it would work the other way around. The older you get, the more you’re supposed to know, right? But in real life, that’s not always how it shakes out.

As a brand new parent, I was an expert at raising children. I had devoured every book I could get my hands on. I had listened to the advice of seasoned parents around me. And most importantly, I had a religious framework that assured me it had all the answers. In my mind, good parenting was nothing more than faithfully applying a set of unquestioned universal rules. The right inputs from me would ultimately generate the desired results I envisioned for my offspring. Never mind the fact that I’d never been a parent before. I knew what to do, and I expected to do it like a pro.

Nearly thirteen years later, I’m trying to figure out where that confident young parent snuck off to. I’d like to ask him a few questions, because the current version of myself doesn’t have the slightest clue what he’s doing with the four humans in his house who call him “Dad.” 

It’s not that I don’t care. Quite the opposite, actually. Being a good parent is more important to me than ever. It’s just that I’ve never been less certain about how to get there. All those failproof ideas and authoritative theories from my books and mentors? They’re long gone. In their place is nothing but crossed fingers and vague question marks. On my best days, I feel like I’m merely holding on for dear life, trying to give my kids as little to unpack with their future therapists as I possibly can.

To some, that may sound like a depressing development. I certainly would have seen it that way back when I was painting the nursery and stocking up on diapers. But the farther I go on this parenting journey, the more liberating I find my newfound ignorance to be. 

It’s like someone who misplaces the only cookbook he’s ever known. For years, whenever he went to make a meal, he would meticulously follow a recipe from that single cookbook. Every ingredient was measured, every measurement was precise. But then one day, it’s gone. He can’t find it. Dinnertime is right around the corner, and there’s nothing to tell him what to make. He feels adrift. But he’ll soon find out that he’s adrift in a kitchen full of possibility. An entirely new relationship to cooking awaits him. He has no choice but to experiment, to explore, to play. And in the process, he’ll soon discover new flavors the old cookbook never would have led him to.

As I’ve pondered the effects of losing my parenting cookbook, I’m slowly starting to see that it’s anything but bad. Sure, there are moments when it’s undeniably terrifying. But at least for me, the happy side effects of parental uncertainty far outweigh the negatives. The less I think I know, the more I find myself relating to my kids in an authentic, life-giving way. 

What does this look like on a practical level? In a nutshell, it looks like a monumental shift in some of my core parenting paradigms:

From Expectation to Empowerment: Rather than measuring my kids against the ideal I’ve set for them, I’m now simply hoping to guide them into discovering who they are and give them the tools to live in alignment with their own values. No matter how much I might want to, I’m not here to write their story. That’s a responsibility only they can carry. What I can do, however, is sharpen their pencils for them and keep putting new pages on the desk. 

From Anxiety to Affirmation: Rather than worrying about whether or not my kids will make all the decisions I want them to make, I’m now simply hoping to celebrate their growth and provide a reliable source of support along the way. What matters isn’t whether or not my kids fail. They will. Repeatedly. What matters is whether or not they’ll be able to count on me to help pick them back up after it happens.

From Control to Connection: Rather than dictating every belief or behavior my kids should adopt, I’m now simply hoping to cultivate a healthy, thriving relationship that transcends any potential differences or disagreements we may have. This means more questions and less answers. More conversations and less commands. More interest in what ignites their passion and less effort convincing them to be ignited by my own. 

From Product to Process: Rather than focusing on the end result of what my kids will grow up to become, I’m now simply hoping to enjoy the journey and savor these fleeting years of being a daily part of their lives. This is all going to be over before I know it. In the meantime, maybe the dad my kids need most isn’t as worried about where they’ll end up tomorrow as much as he is about showing up for them today.

All of these paradigm shifts involve a certain level of letting go. Letting go of my own agenda, letting go of my own control, letting go of my own certainty. That can be a scary and vulnerable thing to do. But alongside the vulnerability of letting go comes a welcome ability to more deeply appreciate my children for the beautifully complex human beings that they are. 

That’s the dynamic that was missing back when parenting all made perfect sense. It was easy to be an expert when all I had were a stack of books and a grainy ultrasound picture. Back then, parenthood could remain purely theoretical. And theoretical parenting is easy. Anyone can navigate theoretical situations and solve theoretical problems with theoretical children. 

But it’s entirely different when theory comes face-to-face with a flesh-and-blood creature who is chock full of quirks and insecurities and preferences and emotions and dreams and intuitions and a whole host of other unique identity markers that make them utterly unlike the other 7 billion people spread across the globe. No theory can fully account for that, and no reasonable parent can expect it to.

So maybe it’s okay to let go. To be uncertain. To give my kids the space to be who they are and to become who they’re meant to be.

After all, I’m not raising the idea of children. I’m raising four actual human beings whose lives are each uniquely theirs. Nobody else has parented them before, and nobody else ever will. It’s not the worst thing in the world to be unsure what to do with that responsibility. It’s enough to step back and be grateful that I’m along for the ride.

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