When we had our first child, 12 years ago, I remember reading every parenting book I could get my hands on. Research article exploring the most effective way to raise kind, happy, confident kids? I'm on it! Newest studies, profoundly thought-provoking columns, how-to guides? Check, check, and check.
Now, shoulder-deep in kids--four boys whose energy never seems to calibrate at anything lower than ZENITH POINT THRESHHOLD--a thought that began percolating back when I read all those books and articles comes circling back: why does it seem like a lot of white men are writing these volumes on parenting and general hot-to advice regarding children and their development?
And furthermore, I began to wonder--12 years ago, and the question forms a through-line to today--about a second question: how are they finding so much time to write, travel, speak, lecture, attend so many conferences, give so many interviews and podcasts and so on?
Essentially, the overarching question my mind and heart couldn't square with everything I was seeing and reading was--and is!--essentially this: who's actually raising the kids?
Thread Two:
I remember reading a fascinating interview with Ruth Graham about her famed evangelist husband, Billy, and how he came home from one of his marathon speaking tours. one of their kids asked Mom, "Who's that?" and the reply--given in a sense of humor but recalled by me with a strain of fascinating sadness--was, "That's your father."
His speaking and traveling had caused crowds to surge and his fame to skyrocket, but had also caused him to become somewhat of a stranger in his own home.
Thread Three:
And now, as I consider so many well-meaning men making a name for themselves in this world--seeking to bridge farther gaps, reach bigger audiences, share inspiring speeches, and striving to grow their influences, the question emerges: Yes! But Who's doing the dishes?
The Rope:
As a father of four sons, I want my kids to strive to pursue their dreams. I want them to chase their deepest passions, especially in the hopes that those passions can meet a need in the world, to paraphrase Frederick Buechner.
However, what I desperately do not want to teach them is to pursue their own goals and dreams while assuming that someone else will change the diapers, or do the dishes, or fold the laundry, or vacuum the carpet, or shovel the driveway.
And now, having just turned 40, I can scan the last twenty years of my own life and see a somewhat slow shift towards this place where I now stand. At twenty, I craved to write a bestselling book, give a speech that would move mountains, craft a new educational theory that would shake the public education system, be everywhere. I wanted to give a keynote at a major conference, be invited to Ted, and write another bestselling book (and then another and another and another).
At 32, the best job I could obtain while living abroad was to be a paperboy. That dose of humility was much-needed, and in a beautiful sense of irony, it is the job that has most profoundly helped me become who I now am.
At 40, I no longer crave major significance, nor for recognition or to be on the stage or the subject of any viral podcast--but rather I do crave to, yes, do the dishes. Give baths to the kids. Change the diapers. Teach a great class for the students whom I deeply care for and want to see become inspiring educators. Help fold a load of laundry. Shovel the driveway.
At the risk of boiling down the deeply complex waters of pursuing one's passions and chasing dreams, I am in no way suggesting that wanting to give a crowd-roaring speech or writing a bestselling book is wrong. I am in no way claiming, here, that the pursuit of significance inevitably unfolds on shaky ground.
However, I do want to ask the question of myself, consistently, in the face of any dreams that involves me under the lights: Yes! But who's doing the dishes?
And I want to ask my sons the same thing. I want them to strive not for any sense of deserving praise, but rather to curtail entitlement and instead help them see the beauty of service. I want to help them see the profound joy in being fully present to the people around them, rather than always seeking to impact strangers whom they can't see--especially when that impact might masquerade as beneficent service but really involves the enlargement of the male ego.
To return to those parenting and childhood books written by the experts, or the many speakers who travel countless circuits to talk about issues that may displace them from the places in which they might actually face those very issues--the lingering question is not about denying oneself, but rather about noticing whose work gets, well, noticed.
Whose work--and what work--gets valued?
I do want to change the world. I want to make it better. I want to contribute something of meaning to the people with whom I interact. But I do not want to do so through the mechanism of an entitled expectation that others will do the dishes, the laundry, the diapers, the driveway. I want to make an impact not by enlarging my own ego, but by learning to do the meaningful work that lies, waiting, right in front of my face. Not because it gets applauded, but because it, too, matters. And because it helps to curtail my own need for applause. It helps to situate my own soul in a place of service and love, and perhaps--too--enables others to shine. Especially others who may have been prevented from doing so because of unjust structures, or status quo expectations that encouraged me, as a white male, to chase my dreams, while simultaneously discouraged others from chasing theirs.
