The Three Jobs

So, dad, what exactly do you do here?

“Dad” was the most straightforward job I ever got. There was no coding assignment, systems design, or executive screen. A doctor told me I got the job in the same way he might tell me I have a high cholesterol count. When we left the hospital, I was sent home without instructions, without oversight, without even a certificate to prove I actually had the job, although I have found that no one, in fact, questions the credentials of a man with a baby.

For the first few years, this lack of structure worked. No one except my wife checked that I was meeting expectations, and these were mostly of the “just keep the baby alive for a few hours, please and thank you” variety. But I distinctly remember when my son, age three, caught on to me. He had a moment of clarity when I placed him in timeout. He recognized for the first time that I, a large animal, had placed him, a small animal, into isolation in his room against his will. (I’m sure it was for hitting a neighbor’s car or his brother with a stick. It’s always sticks.) Even if he accepted my authority, he didn’t have to accept the motivation.

I asked him if he knew why he was in there. He said, “No.” (He did.) I sighed and asked him again. He said, “No.” Knowing that asking three times unsuccessfully would have pushed us past the escalation point of no return, I changed tact.

Do you even know who I am?
> Yeah… you’re my dad.
Do you think I do this for fun—putting you in timeout?
> Yeah! You like it!
No! I do it because I have to. It’s part of my job.
> No, it’s not.
Yes, it is. I have to do it, or else I won’t be doing my job.

Surprisingly, this worked. My son knew little about jobs, except that they were real, they were necessary, and they were things most adults have. A job gave me enough metaphysical backing to move on from that particular episode. I was onto something.

The framing stuck with me, though, because it rang true. While being a parent is a relationship, parenting is defined by action, decision, encouragement, and intervention. No one can force you to do it; it’s a job, a duty.

Over time, I built up my framework around this to be ready at the next timeout. I consulted the greats: Aristotle, Aquinas, Kant, James, Kierkegaard, Moses, and Avatar: The Last Airbender. The challenge was boiling it down, making it all fit into the moment, the attention span. I had 20 words or so to make my point.

I remember the first time I used it.

Why are you in timeout?
> *growling*
No, that’s not the reason. Remember, I have a job to do. Three of them, actually. Do you know what’s my number one job?
> *snarling, but looking at me*
My first job is to keep you safe. Do you know what my number two job is?
> … No.
It’s to help you be the best man you can be. Tell me, when you threw that stick at your mom, were you being the best man you can be?
> *growls*… No.
No, you weren’t. That’s why you’re in timeout. But look, you’ve served your time. Do you know what my third job is?
> … No.
To tickle you!
> *Struggle, hugging, more growling, laughing.*
Now, let’s get out of here.

As dad, I've found myself with three jobs: keeping them safe, helping them be the best they can be, and tickling them. Or, my jobs are to teach respect, virtue, and joy.

Ordering matters here. If a child is unsafe (Job 1), I must intervene immediately without consultation or questions. If a child is poorly behaved (Job 2), I must make space for reflection and discussion. If prior conditions aren’t met but the mood is dour (Job 3), I must be actively present.

This last one, tickling, is also an operational tool to break out of disciplinary moments. It’s a convenient bridge between “We need to talk about moral excellence” and “We need to get you back out in the yard to play.” Tickling works, but it may not be for everyone or every age. For my oldest son, who is eight, Job 3 has evolved into “I must wrestle you into submission.” For another kid, it may be different. The job is not to judge preferences but to engage.

Safety comes from respect for self, others, norms, laws, and nature. It was the first job I ran into as a dad since streets are the first thing kids run into. Teaching respect makes kids aware of the external world and builds perspectives outside themselves. “The ocean doesn’t care about keeping you alive” and “That couple doesn’t want to see your underwear” are simple assertions, but they don’t come hardwired in. Both are lessons in survival.

The call to virtuous living is where the job gets complicated. Only about 50% of kid fouls are flagrant; the rest are up to the referee’s judgment. I often know something is wrong but can’t immediately explain why. (The same goes for the kid.)

The “best person” language is great for these situations. It’s pointed enough to call for a time-out but vague enough not to commit you to a specific course of action. It’s compatible with religious, philosophical, and family practices. It sets up the broader conversation without committing me to decide on the issue at the moment—disrespect, anger, jealousy, greed, etc. Instead, I can focus on alignment with the long-term goal.

“When you threw your brother’s lunch in the trash, were you being the best person you can be?”

Yes or no.

Parenting is compression. How do you take all of the potential ways of behaving, all of the ways a child can be good or bad, and put them in front of an angry three-year-old? I need to stretch their concept of self and action just enough, like dough, kneading, kneading, so they can expand. I want him to pause and reflect, to see alternative ways of acting. To show him that he is not set in stone, that he exists in relation to me, to himself, to others, to history.

“This is my job as much as yours. Were you being the best person you can be?”

Yes or no.

Job 2 is the heavy job, the one I always get hung up on. Achievement, excellence, right living, success. That’s the job about which most ink has been spilled.

It’s not the whole job, though. It has to be tempered by joy. For all the blur of the day-to-day of parenting, for all the decisions that we make and are made for us, I try to remember that, yes, tickling—that is, laughter—is also part of the job. My children came in part from my body, and their bodies will outlast mine. While the roles and duties are helpful now, they weren’t there at the start and won’t be there at the end. What will last is that feeling I can give them that comes from immediacy and from presence, from joy, which exists beyond words and rules, which sits below ego, below cortex, below the reptile brain, deep in the heart, the left atrium perhaps, and which will pump through them for the rest of their life.