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Eleven years ago, I sat in the dark corner of a neonatal intensive care unit weeping. My two-week-old daughter lay 10 yards away in an incubator, plugged into machines, with an IV connected to a vein in her head. I was alone, in a dark room, hidden behind several piles of furniture. We were among the last families in the hospital as it readied itself to move across town to its new campus the next day.
I’d just hung up the phone with my parents after attempting to explain what I knew. Basically, in a few short hours, we’d gone from the Emergency Room to the NICU. There was something amiss in my daughter’s neurological functioning. That morning we’d noticed that when we put her in a swing, her eyes started to roll back into her head. The doctors thought she might be having seizures, which is never a good sign in a newborn.
For about ten minutes, I sat in that dark corner feeling helpless, afraid, and overwhelmed. At that moment I went through every dream I had for my child. Her first steps and words; her graduation from school; her possible life and loves. The overwhelming uncertainty of the moment caused each one to fade, and all I could do was cry.
Fast forward eleven years and I am looking in my rear-view mirror at my daughter. She alternates between laughing, talking, and rolling her eyes at me. What initially was epilepsy morphed into migraines. As she enters puberty, her headaches are increasing in frequency and pain, but other than that, she is an amazing young lady. In between the eyes rolls and laughter, she tells me that I’m a good dad.
And, I remember that night in the waiting room, how I doubted and raged and feared what was next. In the intertwining years between that moment and now, I remember the missteps, treating her with kids gloves as though she might break, scared to give her freedom and not wanting to hold too tightly. At the precipice of adolescence, I still doubt and rage and fear what will come next.
I’ve always wanted to be a good parent, a good dad. There are so many moments when all I feel is the opposite, and I am coming to realize it isn’t healthy. I find myself oscillating between guilt and shame and success. My moods and methods and interactions swing back and forth untethered to a lasting identity.
What I’d like to convince myself is that it is okay to be a good-enough dad. The term “good enough” comes from early 20th century psychologist D.W. Winnicot. In a book called Playing and Reality, he uses the concept of good enough in the context of motherhood. The idea, as I understand it, is that striving for good, which often means perfection in our current age, is a recipe for failure.
Good means I’m comparing myself to others, all the time. Good creates a scaffold, a hierarchy of sorts where people are categorized and separated. Going to the playground means being judged for how interactive or permissive I am with my kids. To be sure, there are basic markers of health and well-being that parents should try and meet. Moreover, while we continue to learn what helps kids develop, each parenting task and role is different, and it would probably help if we were in relationship to others rather than constantly comparing ourselves and our kids to one another.
To be a good-enough dad or a good-enough man is to recognize that I’m not in a competition, and perfection is impossible. It means that I need to look at the day in its entirety, and not just at the latest peak or valley.
Being good enough means:
- Leaning into the complexity of each day
- Seeing failure as feedback
- Being willing to admit when I am wrong and seek to truly get better
- Being okay with guilt, because it can be a marker or opportunity for growth
- Not being okay with shame, which usually keeps me paralyzed
- And, seeking help from others, whether personal or professional
There’s too much at stake if we hinge our world on being good alone. It actually can hinder us from growing, developing, and challenging ourselves to get better. Good enough leaves room for what we truly are, completely and utterly unfinished.
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