Bad Parents

Previous generations had a word for this — “character” — and they seemed to know innately, or perhaps because they’d suffered through a depression and a world war, that it was a lot more valuable than a degree from an elite university or even a sweet signing bonus when you’re coming out of law school.

All of this, perhaps not surprisingly, has made me think a lot about myself as a parent — one episode in particular. Three years ago, when my daughter Hannah was five, she made friends with two other girls in our neighborhood, and the three of them spent a summer running back and forth between each others’ houses. My wife and I were thrilled, because it looked very much like the breezy, ­playdate-free childhoods we’d both had.

Until it went bad. One day the local police called. Hannah and her friend, who’d told my wife they were headed to the third girl’s house, had instead walked a mile to the local Dairy Queen — without shoes, and with about 35 cents between them. We lectured Hannah and grounded her, but for a long time it felt like a low point in our lives as parents. Recently, though, I’ve started to wonder whether it’s not exactly how parenting is supposed to work. Because these days, whenever the incident comes up, Hannah sticks her fingers in her ears and begs us not to talk about it. She knows she screwed up big-time.

I won’t kid myself that we have everything licked; there are dozens more moments like that ahead of us. But I’m determined to stay focused on what I’m supposed to be focused on. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pour myself a manhattan. I got a life here.