A little over ten years ago, I was with my two brothers at the Final Four (brag). At that point in our lives, we were all married, kids were right around the corner (fast-forward to now and there are nine of them), and we had each settled into solid careers. Our conversation bounced from the weekend’s semifinals, to the potential of the Alien vs. Predator universe, to childhood stories, and—naturally—to our dad. He was supposed to join us for this “One Shining Moment” weekend, but his flight wasn’t landing until later that night.
Talking about Dad was the logical end point after reliving our childhood antics. So many of our stories ended the same way: getting caught by Dad, getting punished by Dad, or getting yelled at by Dad. They’re funny now—much funnier than they were in the moment.
Our father was old school. He grew up tough and he was tough on us. Before anyone feels too sorry for me, I should say I grew up extremely privileged: solidly middle class, great suburb, great schools. By “tough,” I don’t mean hardship—I mean expectations. Dad wasn’t the “I love you” type. If you did nine out of ten things right, he focused on the one you got wrong. And believe me, in his mind it was definitely you who messed up. His yell was scary, but the gritted teeth and cocked head were even scarier. When we screwed up, we went to Mom… and we prayed she wouldn’t tell Dad.
But sitting there ten years ago, fully grown and financially independent, our reminiscing wasn’t bitter—it was grateful. We were thankful for our father. We knew his tough love, his high expectations, his refusal to let us whine, and his insistence on accountability had shaped us into the successful triumvirate we’d become.
That gratitude naturally led us to remember friends and classmates who weren’t so lucky. And it’s funny to say “unlucky,” because at the time we thought they had won the lottery: more freedom, more access to things, fewer responsibilities, parents who rarely said no. But now, as adults, we’d watched how that soft parenting had set them up for real-world consequences they simply weren’t prepared to handle. Childhood had shielded them from discomfort—so adulthood hit them like a truck.
Meanwhile, our childhood consequences kept us from the much heavier consequences of adulthood. We resented the discipline then. We appreciate it now.
So why am I recalling that Final Four conversation a decade later?
Because now I have kids. I’m around kids all the time—both as a parent and as an educator. And I see a lot.
Kids who dictate the rules.
Kids with no consequences.
Kids with ready-made excuses.
Kids without responsibility.
Kids with unlimited technology.
Entitled kids.
Lazy kids.
Disrespectful kids.
Spoiled kids.
Selfish kids.
Thirty years ago, my brothers and I would have called these kids “lucky.” Today, with a little age and a lot of perspective, I see something very different. I see kids who might grow up to resent their parents—not for being too strict, but for not giving them the guidance, boundaries, and accountability they needed.
And I see adults like us—grateful that someone loved us enough to make life a little hard when it actually mattered.
Thanks, Dad.
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