The Fixing Is the Fix

Adam here…

I believe I can engineer perfection. It’s a core part of who I am. If I just work hard enough, smart enough, fast enough, I will eliminate mistakes, discomfort, conflict. I would never expect this of anyone else — they’re human. But me? I can do it. It’s a special form of unconscious vanity.

August makes it worse. Back-to-school season brings up a lot of parental emotions: relief, guilt, nostalgia, just to name a few — and underneath all of it, a low hum of am I getting this right? I love drop off and pick up for one reason. It always affirms my belief in humanity — that everyone is doing the best they can. Of course there are terrible, neglectful people out there. But they are the anomaly. Most people, even if they don’t read what I read, vote how I vote, or dress how I dress, still hug their kid with glee at pick up. They still pause on the sidewalk, already late for a meeting, to fix a ponytail that fell out. We all want to do right by our kids.

About a year ago, shortly after the birth of our second, I asked my therapist:

“As someone who has worked with families as well as teens throughout your career, what would you say are the predictors of a good long-term relationship with your kids?”

I’m not so naive as to think there are three simple steps to a healthy relationship with your kids. But if such a thing did exist — hypothetically — what would they be?

Him: I’ll start by saying it’s not something you can reliably engineer.

Me: Of course I know that. But what are the things you actually see that matter?

Him: A few things. It’s not about perfection. Giving your kids the perfect life, access to everything we think matters — that doesn’t necessarily build a great long-term relationship. I’ve seen just as many young adults struggling because their parents never let them in on their own mistakes. They come to therapy holding an impossible standard, this belief that they’ll never live up to their perfect parents. Their parents weren’t perfect, but they never showed it. In moderation, modeling mistakes, healthy conflict, and disagreement is the best thing you can do for a kid.

Me: Any examples?

Him: In high school, I asked my dad if I could drive to the next state to see a friend. He said yes. A few hours later he came back to my room and told me he’d changed his mind. As a teenager, that felt massively unfair. He could have said “because I said so” and shut the whole thing down. He didn’t. Instead: “I know this feels unfair. I wish I could say yes. Here’s why I changed my mind. I’m not even sure it’s the right call, but as your dad, it’s my job to make the best decision I can with what I know, for your well-being. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” That didn’t take away the sting, or the anger, or the phone call to my friend. But it shifted something. It told me my dad was a person too. I didn’t agree with his reasons. I felt connected to him anyway, because he let me into how he got there.

Me: So you are really modeling your own fallibility in real time.

Him: Another one — meet them where they are. Even if you don’t understand where that is, be open to wanting to know.

Me: By showing up? Talking to them about it?

Him: That, but also like the story with my dad. Say your kid is into something you don’t totally get, don’t see the value in. Think about what it would mean to hear, honestly, “I want to understand this about you. I’m having a hard time getting there, but I do want to, and I’ll keep trying.”

Me: It’s so interesting — that flips the whole thing on its head. It’s not about being perfect at living in their world. It’s a willingness to try, said out loud.

Him: Right. And it doesn’t have to be constant. You don’t need to go overboard, turning every dinner into a therapy session. A little goes a long way. Kids remember the moments, not the volume.

Me: So it’s not about getting the response right, either.

Him: No. It’s about repair, not precision. You will get it wrong. You’ll say the sentence you wish you hadn’t, hold the line you shouldn’t have held. The relationship isn’t built on never doing that. It’s built on what happens after.

Me: What does that actually sound like?

Him: Smaller than you’d think. It’s not always the car-and-the-friend story. It’s “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I was upset about something else, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair to you.” That’s it. That’s the whole repair.

I keep circling back to this, months later, at pickup, watching kids run into their parent’s arms.

I told Amber about the session. She’s an Enneagram One — hates being wrong or, more specifically, feeling like a bad person. She winced. Why would I ever deliberately make a mistake to teach my kids a lesson?

Nobody’s suggesting you make mistakes on purpose. The mistake is coming either way. It’s hard for perfectionists — foreign, almost, the idea that failure isn’t the enemy of the plan, it’s part of it. We are not infallible. We will get it wrong. What we do next is the only part we actually control.

It’s not about perfection. Meet them where they are, don’t go overboard, and repair.

The fixing is the fix.