There are blog posts, and entire blogs, columns written, books published, not-so-secret societies devoted to parents admitting to what terrible jobs they are doing parenting their children.  It's become a bad joke.
"Ha ha, children of today.  Poor, poor you guys.  Boy will you need therapy because we are all drunken sucky grown ups who are laughing at you once you hit your bed crying."

Plastered everywhere are admissions driven by guilt, by laziness, by hilarious outcomes, by desire to fit in with the others, by just about anything you can imagine.  Parents do it because it makes them feel better.  Because it makes other parents feel better.  Solidarity in numbers.  We all take shortcuts.  When one parent admits to something, hundreds more chime in.  First in whispers, then louder, louder, louder, until it becomes a battle cry.

me  And me.  Me Too.  And Us!  WE ALL!

And it is "we".  We all cheat, and now that it's okay to admit it, most of us do that too.

How would you feel if someone treated your kid the way that you sometimes treat your kid?
Probably not so good, I'm guessing.
I sometimes do things with Jacob that I wouldn't be comfortable knowing you did with him.
On the flip side, there are things I'd rather you sometimes did with him.  Like taking him to McDonalds.  Or letting him go down the big slide backwards and upside down.

Have you ever had to admit to another parent that you cheated while caring for their child?  That you took some of those shortcuts, those liberties, with their baby?  Looked them dead in the eye and told them that a scraped knee or busted lip or broken heart or act of negligence was your fault?

I did.

It sucked.

Hard.

But I manned up and I did it and it wasn't the end of the world and the other parent understood and said that he was glad that I stepped in when I did and it seems that everything is going to be okay after all.

That other parent?  Was my dad.
And that kiddo?  Me.

When I was a senior in high school a guidance counselor recommended that I swipe a baby picture of myself from my parents and keep it somewhere important.  Preferably in a frame on a wall or on a desk and bureau.  Keep it as a reminder to take care of the little girl in that picture now that her mom and dad wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on her.  I do have that picture in a frame.  It's at the top of the stairs in the hall next to the pelican room.  Maybe you've seen it.

It was just so easy to let days and months and years and personal responsibilities slip by in favor of taking care of the things that life throws at you.  Not just big things like work and children and houses and marriage.  But little things like sunny days and friendships and good books and the way the wind sometimes blows up from the south and across the Delaware instead of down from the north and over the Schuykill and I am compelled to drop what I'm doing and run to the waterfront and let it all wash over me as if that can take care of the ails.  But it can't.  And I've learned.  And lately I'm doing things the way they are supposed to be done.

It's still Lent, People of The Lenten, how are you doing with your Lentils?  Remember how I was big on the idea that everyone is somebody's baby?  That means you too.  Taking care of yourself in a way that would do Papso and Mamsie proud is an excellent way to spend the days before Easter.

Just saying.