I just want what's best for my child

In the unrelenting chase of what is ‘best,’ many of us can unknowingly allow our lives to become defined by materialism.

—Jennifer Breheny Wallace (Never Enough: When Achievement Culture Becomes Toxic-and What We Can Do About It)

With a zero-, one-, or two-year-old child, the script for parenthood is simple. Show up, change that poopie diaper, bathe your dang child, help them sleep, and don’t forget the milk. Do these things repeatedly for years and — voilà! — you’ve raised a child.

But around two or three, kids start saying “no” a lot. They start to assert their autonomy, and simply getting them into the car or doing anything (especially, on time) becomes a challenge. When my little one turned two, being present with him and taking care of his basic needs suddenly felt insufficient.

Now, I was navigating Class III rapids — sloshed around by my son’s erratic needs, getting hit by him (purposely and accidentally), and met with a molasses-like pace whenever he protested something.

Give me a poopie diaper any day, ‘cause that shit doesn’t talk back.

I suddenly needed to balance my connection and direction with every encounter. If I yelled, I was giving direction at the risk of connection. If I simply rolled over and gave him the entire bag of gummy bears, I’d be a friend not a father (not to mention my pediatric dentist wife would likely divorce me). The balance needed to be redesigned.

I needed to change. My wife needed to change. And so, too, the parents and caregivers of those at my child’s preschool needed to change.

We all felt the shift in our children. I’d glance at one tired parent after another, and we didn’t even need to say anything — the eyes gave it away. Bags were forming. Hair was unraveling. The same pajamas were being worn by our children multiple days in a row. By the time I dropped him off in the morning and headed off to work, I felt like I had lived an entire day already.

Underneath that shared stress and exhaustion, another shift was occurring among parents. We had graduated from sleep and potty training, and into a more individualized stream of development.

On a smaller scale, I noticed certain parents swiftly drop off their children, while others lingered or returned to the classroom multiple times. This minor anecdote would become a mere example of the growing differences in parenting approaches — a gulf between low and high-touch caregivers.

For some parents, the preschool education served its purpose: a safe place for the child with some art and music mixed in. For others, there was a desire for more goals, milestones, and opportunities for growth/achievement. What I was beginning to see was how radically different the journey would be from here on out for our children. Thankfully, I wasn’t the first to discover this trend.

In 2003, a sociologist named Annette Lareau published a book entitled, Unequal Childhoods: Class, Race, and Family Life. She proposed the term concerted cultivation to represent a parenting style from traditionally middle to upper-class households. These families tend to be college-educated with white collar jobs, and they build a lifestyle for their children that can prepare them for elite universities and high-income employment. The families hold greater affluence and desire to preserve this privilege. Children raised in these households tend to exhibit greater achievement orientation, but also risk greater psychopathology related to this pressure.

Inversely, there are various terms and identities that parents might choose for a lower-touch approach. Whether we call it natural growth, free range, slow, or idle parenting, these caregivers embrace more unstructured play and allow children to fail. This approach prizes down time with or without a parent. Slow down. Life is fast. The children will have time to find themselves and learn their ABCs, while developing social and emotional skills of cooperation and play with others. Their academic or vocational success might look poorer, but they may have greater creative play and reduced rates of mental health concerns.

For the concerted cultivation parents, the classroom wasn’t enriching their children enough — there was untapped potential for growth in them. For the “slow” parents, the school and teachers were doing great and setting reasonable expectations for social and emotional development in this year’s curriculum for three to four-year-olds.

Neither group was wrong to want these standards for their child. We (almost) all want the best for our children. I’d be shocked if a single parent didn’t raise their hand if asked, “Do you want the best for your child?” I struggled to know what was best for ours — torn between trying to cultivate a successful human or allowing him to find his way.

Then, I reflected on the subtle heaviness of what best means and how often I’ve heard, “I just want the best for my child.” I have heard it all my life — from my own childhood to now. It’s always passed between my ears without interruption or a second thought. The statement seems unimpeachable.

But there was this new weight to the phrase I couldn’t quite identify. Something about it reminded me of my own schooling, especially in my doctoral program.

Students would meet with other students — teachers were asked to leave — and behind those closed doors I remember saying to younger cohorts, “Bs get PhDs.” For many of these students, they’d spent their whole lives achieving. My “advice” caused a stir, but my intent was that grades aren’t everything. There’s a world of opportunity to care, give back, and participate that getting an A won’t allow you to do. This same tension between “best” and “enough” that I navigated in graduate school was now playing out in how we approached our son's development.

Being the best means sacrificing something. It’s zero-sum. The best athlete likely trains year-round, has support staff, and constantly monitored nutrition. The best writer probably writes and reads as much as possible — every moment they can. The best student is likely studying, prepping, and fighting for the best grades. The best often requires a devotion of time and effort that comes at the consequence of friendships, relationships, sleep, nutrition, mental health, and other aspects of wellness.

For some parents, “best” is used when questioning vaccine science: “I’m concerned about the COVID vaccine, so we’re not giving it to Timmy.” Other caregivers might question public school’s class sizes: “Margaret is a sensitive girl, and having 25 kids in a class is way too much for her. We’re going to move her to the better schools.” Or it can be directly related to performance in sport or skills: “We’ve enrolled Ali in violin and basketball this winter, and are hoping to get him in the next level ski class.”

What are the consequences when we question vaccines, withdraw from schools, or overload our children’s schedules? What gets lost when we just want the best for our children?

Remember those parents I wrote about earlier? The caring, thoughtful, motivated people at my son's preschool? What if instead of wondering if they want the best for their child, I asked, “Do you want the best for your community?” I bet most — if not all — the same hands would rise again.

But “Do you want the best for your child?” and “Do you want the best for your community?” may be at odds with one another, especially in present day America. To affirm both is an impossibility given the current unequal structure of this country — one where we are constantly given the privilege to choose or made powerless by those who do.

Optimizing for my children comes with consequences regarding support for all children in this country. "Best" is an individualistic pursuit. If I pull my child out of a public school or refuse a vaccine, I am prioritizing me, my son, and my daughter at the expense of the collective good.

Here's what I plan to say moving forward: “I just want what’s best for our community, including my children.”

It's hard when the pressures internally and externally might demand otherwise. The antidote for me is to raise content children, knowing they have enough, are enough, and will always be enough. No grade, achievement, special talent, title, degree, or status will ever change how I see them. And when I see my children as enough, I see my community as enough, too.