My kids have come to me with a question and left with a lecture.
They’ve tried to explain something, and I’ve pushed for answers before they could finish. In my head, I was already solving the problem. I wanted to help. I also wanted it settled so I could quit worrying about it. Meanwhile, they were still trying to get to the part they came to tell me.
They already trusted me enough to come to me. That’s the part I can lose sight of when I’m busy being Dad. They could’ve kept it to themselves. There’s an honor in being the person they chose, and I’ve had to go back to my boys and own the times I handled that poorly. I talked at them. I pushed. Whatever I thought I was accomplishing, it didn’t help.
Those are the times I caught it. I wonder how often I walked away thinking we’d had a good talk because I’d gotten to say everything on my mind.
Some of my friends know me better than some members of my family. Those relatives could tell you stories about me going back decades. My friends could tell you what I’m wrestling with now. They asked. They listened. The next time we talked, they remembered where we’d left off.
I’ve watched the opposite happen in families. An adult asks a kid how things are going. The kid starts to answer, and something he says reminds the adult of a story. Ten minutes later, everybody knows what the adult did at his age. Nobody knows how things are going for the kid. From across the room, it looks like the two of them are catching up.
A relationship can look close for years that way. We show up, take the picture, sit through dinner. Then something important happens, our kid tells a friend first, and we’re hurt. “Why didn’t you come to me? I’m your father.”
Did you ever have their trust, or did you lose it?
Sometimes we assumed we had it because we were family. Other times they did come to us. We turned their question into a speech, repeated something they told us in private, or got pissed when they didn’t take our advice. Eventually, “Everything’s fine” becomes an easier answer. They know how the longer version goes.
My boys know I can give advice. What they find out over time is whether there’s room to tell me I missed something, and what it’s going to cost them if they do.
At least once a month, sometimes every week, I ask my wife, Tiffany, or my boys, “How am I actually doing in our relationship?”
They need to be able to answer. I need to be able to hear it.
If one of my boys says, “Dad, you always do this,” I know how easy it would be to grab onto that word. I could give him three examples to prove him wrong and, in the time it took to list them, do the very thing he was trying to tell me about.
Asking the question can become its own performance if the only answer I can tolerate is that I’m doing great. They shouldn’t have to reassure me because I invited them to be honest.
I know what I intended. I need to understand what it was like on their end. That means letting them finish, taking their answer seriously, and doing something about what I hear. What happens afterward helps determine whether they feel comfortable bringing something to me again.
I want to know my boys as they become men. What they’re proud of. What’s weighing on them. What they haven’t figured out yet. As they build their own lives, I’ll know less of that unless they choose to tell me.
Someday, they’ll have a hard day, face a decision, or need to admit something they’re ashamed of. They’ll pick up their phone and decide who to call.
I want to be someone they call. I have to remember that while they’re standing in front of me today.
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Think about the last time somebody came to you with something hard. Did they get to finish what they came to say? Or did they get a history lesson and a reason to keep it to themselves next time?
I built a short, anonymous Listening Check. Take it with that conversation in mind. Then, if you want to know how you actually did, ask the person who was there. Give them room to answer. That’s the part I’m still working on.
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What did you recognize, disagree with, or see differently after reading this?
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