With parenting, and with overtly limited time resources these days, I think a lot about the concept of choosing my battles. Apart from basic functions like a consistent bedtime and good nutrition, and more to the point: when should I be pushing my kids towards their “potential,” and when should I recognize that they are who they are — innately, and already — and to materially push against that is to squander my time with them? All of this in the context of wanting to give my children the strongest springboard from which they can launch their life’s trajectory and find fulfillment and happiness relative to their individual goals… suffice it to say, the stakes feel high.

There is a Freakonomics episode called “The Economist’s Guide to Parenting: 10 Years Later.” It’s a follow up to an interview of — you guessed it — economists who weighed in with their approaches to parenting 10 years prior. The podcast culminates in a nature and nurture discussion:

“How powerful are the hereditary forces of nature vs the many factors that constitute nurture? And how do nature & nurture blend in a given person? It’s plainly not a simple thing to sort out. Just think about schooling: the older a kid gets, the more time they spend outside the home, with their peers. There’s some evidence that peer influence can be very powerful. That said, parents are the ones who choose the school they attend and – to a lesser degree – what kind of peers their kids will spend time with.”

I think about my experiences with my own siblings — the people I have the longest-standing observational history with. (NB: another fascinating read about the only people who know you “from cradle to grave”: The Sibling Effect by Jeffrey Kluger.) I look back at childhood memories and consistently think, “isn’t it funny; so-and-so has always been that way,” and “they still are.”

One of my brothers, for instance, has always been curious, even-keeled, and self-assured. He was the kid who taught himself Cat’s Cradle, and complex Origami designs, and Rubik’s Cube algorithms until he qualified to compete at the World Championship (yes, there is such a thing). He had his strong springboard into adulthood as a University of Michigan graduate, but it took him several years to figure out what he actually wanted to pursue after graduation nevertheless. In those years, he was guided by his curiosity, pursued a handful of different passions, and evinced a great deal of patience with himself until he broke into the computer programming world and kicked off his (now successful) career. I have to wonder how my parents – watching their intelligent, talented, college-educated son move home and wait tables at Outback Steakhouse for an extended period – balanced their desire to force him to channel his untapped potential with recognition of his lifelong style of methodical pursuit of his interests that cannot be rushed.

His story is only one of the five of us, but it gives me the sense that the macro view of how each of us turned out was almost a foregone conclusion, albeit perhaps in slightly different settings.

As one of the economists resolves: “the main punchline of this work is, yes, that nurture is greatly overrated.” Then again, another reflects, “who cares? You do the best you got with what you got. So if it’s 80% nature, it still leaves me with 20%. If it’s 20% nature, it leaves me with 80%. Either way, I want to get that part of the puzzle right.”

I suspect that, when the boys are grown, I will look back on these childhood years, see their behavioral and personality trends, and recognize how futile some of the battles I fought were in light of that. For better or worse, however, this suspicion is not markedly useful in the day-to-day moments when I debate digging in or letting go of a contentious topic.

Earlier this week, a colleague of mine shared an observation from his grandmother. She told him: “you will spend more time with your children as your friends than you will raising them.” This time of life with such small children feels high stakes, but it is limited. When I picture my future self sitting around the dinner table with my adult sons and simply enjoying their company, I do admit it takes a little bit of the pressure off of today.

(AS OBSERVED FROM A HOUSE FULL OF TINY MEN)

When I was younger, I imagined the type of girl I might raise. She would be confident; emboldened by her own abilities. She would be strong; assured of her intrinsic and extrinsic power. She would play sports, program computers, and demand excellence and equal treatment from the company she kept. I was certain I could contribute this gift – a capable daughter – to the world’s next generation.

I then went on to marry a man who does not contribute X chromosomes.

It was sometime between my second and third son that the gravity of raising boys really dawned on me:

I am the female archetype for them that will showcase women’s capabilities.

I am a primary player in their model of marriage and partnership.

I am responsible for demonstrating to them what womanhood entails and how it is sometimes distinct — and sometimes indistinguishable — from manhood.

Multiplied by 4 boys. No pressure.

3 things I have tried to emphasize thus far:

1. Body differences – with no shame attached.
   
   At this stage especially, there is no delusion of modesty in our home. Partially because I’m (often: see here) a nursing mother, and partially because not all of our bathroom door locks work properly. Regardless, I try to use medical terms to refer to body parts, with no judgment or shame. They are aware that I don’t have the option to stand and pee without making a mess, though I’ll be frank that the anatomical argument falls apart when we discuss the messes they nevertheless handily make while standing themselves.
   
   
2. Female friendships.
   
   I have encouraged and nurtured the boys’ friendships with girl classmates. Around the age of 3, they seem to gravitate towards hanging around in daycare with kids of their own sex, but at least as far as 6+, it seems more incidental because any time I suggest inviting a girl friend to play, they’re equally as excited and have a fantastic time together.
   
   
3. Value beyond aesthetics.
   
   When the boys were younger, I asked Dave to switch the adjectives he used to describe me in front of them. Instead of his standard “you look great” comment, he started saying things like “you are so ambitious.” “Did you guys see that? Mama is so strong.” “Lookin’ real accomplished there, Babe!” I want them to be thinking differently about the ways to evaluate the people around them — and women should not be primarily evaluated based on looks. (Side note: I made a soft commitment to myself to never speak badly of my appearance in front of them. If I have it my way, they will always believe their mother recognizes and internalizes the strength and beauty of her body — regardless of how it looks to others or ages over time.)
   

Time will tell how I execute on this mission. My hope is that one day I will contribute this — my gift to the world’s next generation: men who see women far beyond their physical appearances, who count on the insight and world-view of their female friends, who are allies, and equal partners… and who treat a request to pick up tampons at the store as no more contentious than picking up shampoo or deodorant.

Not long ago, our 9-year-old neighbor put me on the spot. She was asking whether Dave was back from his business travel (she walks J to the bus stop on the mornings Dave is out of town, thereby saving me packing up the other bros to join us), and stumbled trying to refer to Dave:

“Is Mr. — is your– is Dave– is… What should I call him?”

I was stumped. In my haste to not confuse her with my own confusion, I told her to refer to Dave as “Mr. [Last Name],” but immediately regretted it. Sure enough, when I talked about it with Dave, he was almost offended that I would suggest our kid’s friend refer to him as though he was some stodgy, adult-adjacent parent.

But seriously: what’s the convention for this nowadays??

Mr. and Mrs. [Last Name] feels far too formal to me — my imposter syndrome flares up immediately with a reminder that I still choose chapstick over lipstick and therefore cannot possibly be an adult on par with my friends’ parents [Mr. and Mrs. Last Names] growing up yet.

Ms. Kel and Mr. Dave feels more comfortable, but are we confusing things when we create a casual way of speaking to adults and then expect these same kids to refer to their kindergarten teachers and Mr. or Mrs. [Last Names] as a sign of respect? After all, even if that same teacher is 8-10 years younger than me, and even if her position on the chapstick vs lipstick scale is unknown, we are big into respect for teachers around here.

Please weigh in with opinions. School is out this week and therefore my focus group of adults (the bus stop parents) is unavailable to survey.

This is a picture of my sons’ laundry basket. Partially full. Outside. Unattended. At 7:30am. Drenched in just-above-freezing rain.

What is it doing here?

Ladies & gentleman: the hidden cost of having a large family.

When people talk theoretically about having more kids, the “cost” is generally associated with financial demands of childcare/future education, or finite time resources divided among additional small humans.

To illustrate the point, a few examples of where so much of my time goes each day (as in, there is not a day where these things don’t come up):

1. Time spent cutting food into small pieces for people who can otherwise not manage the mechanics of a knife.
   
2. Time spent turning small articles of clothing rightside-in, and/or extracting small pairs of undies from inside-out pants in the laundry, and/or checking small tags on clothes to determine what size these indistinguishably generic pair of elastic-waisted jeans are.
   
3. Time spent manually drying the small, plastic plates and cups that come out of the dishwasher and are — without fail — still damp.

But there’s a hidden cost of having a large family. This cost is the increase in variables that can upend the delicate system that is life with a young family.

Case in point: 11pm Tuesday found me standing in pajamas and slippers in my driveway, shaking out the chunks from my 2 year old’s bedding after he woke up vomiting. I managed to get 2 full loads washed during the wee hours while both O (4) & A (2) were up and down sick, but I’ll be honest: after the second load, I had to wonder what their daycare fed them that was so pink. You know you’re in a miserable spot when you look for the silver lining and think “at least it’s above freezing tonight.”

Fast forward to the morning. Dave, O, and A are still sleeping fitfully on the bathroom floor after having burned through every throw blanket and spare bedding set in our house. I get J up and ready for school, C up and ready for daycare, and go to load them in the car. In the process, I spot the hamper I evidently left outside, partially full with now saturated clothes. I bring it in, wash up the clothes in one of the many other loads run throughout the day, drive the boys to the bus/daycare, and continue on my workday in a sleep-deprived fog with my 2- and 4-year-olds sporadically scurrying across the background of my video calls.

All this to say: it’s a good thing they’re cute, because the more adorable little monsters you have, the higher the likelihood your day gets turned on its head hours before it even begins.