Am I a Good Dad, or Is the Bar Just Really Low?
Asking for a friend who’s a dad of a toddler and writes letters to his son to prove his worth.
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I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:
15 Months Old
Dear Myles,
At a family function, we stayed inside—the Alabama heat was too much for you at just 8 weeks old. Your mother was outside mingling when a woman walked in, looking for the bathroom. She spotted us, and her face lit up with shock and surprise. With her hands together, she said, “Well, look at that! A man nursing a baby! I’ve never seen that before.”You would’ve thought I was breastfeeding, but I was just giving you a bottle. She was so impressed. I wish she’d stuck around for my next trick—the burp.
The bar for being a father feels so low that I’m not sure if I’m a good father or just being praised for doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Sure, give me the Nobel Peace Prize for keeping my son alive by feeding him.
I know I’m not alone in this. Last week, we went to an event for a school we hope to enroll you in when you're older. I noticed another dad holding his beautiful daughter, who looked about your age, and we connected immediately. There were a few dads there, but even fewer who looked like us. We talked about the love and exhaustion, the diaper blowouts, sleep regressions, the “Are you going for another baby, or is the shop closed?” question, and how expensive the school is—but how it’s worth it. I told him it’s always good to see another dad who looks like me in spaces like this. Before I could get my next sentence out, he said the very thing that’s been on my mind since the nurse first handed me your tiny body: “Yeah, because the bar is really low.”' He went on to share how other men are surprised he changes diapers or watches his own children when his wife goes out. I almost asked if he was my doppelgänger.
Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my head about being a ‘good dad’ versus ‘just doing what I’m supposed to be doing’ that I end up doing the most for the least. Like when your mother was pregnant and couldn’t get comfortable in bed, so I gave up my comfort and joined her on the couch. Good dad: 1, my back: 0.
Or when you were born, I felt so guilty for sleeping while you struggled with latching. I’d sit there, hands on my knees, hunched over like a ref trying to throw flags and call fouls on a game I never played, while your mother worked to guide your lips around her nipple without suffocating you. Then one late night, your mother—beautiful in her full postpartum, milk spilling everywhere like a Got Milk? Ad that didn’t make the cut – turned to me and said, not ever so gently, “Imagine if every time you peed, I ran in to watch you, Marc.” And then I got it. I didn’t need to be a ref or even a cheerleader—she just needed me to get out of the way and go to sleep.
Even now, I take every night shift, even the ones when you wake up at 3 a.m., and tell your mother, “It’s okay, I’ve got this,” even though I really don’t, because I am exhausted. But I tell myself this is what I’m supposed to do—this is what good dads do, right? Good dads stay awake and let mothers sleep, right? Right?!
Sometimes it feels like I am fighting to be a father in a world that has already decided you don’t really need one. Honestly, I had to tell myself some lies when I was younger—lies to convince myself I didn’t need my own dad. And now, here I am with my own son, you, trying to make sure you don’t repeat some of the same things I told myself to get through the nights when my father wasn’t there. I write letters every week, publicly, to prove to you that I matter in a world that has taught me and many others that parenting is a “buy one, get one free” deal—the father is just the extra.
I know I have nothing to prove—I know I’m a good father, but I don’t always feel that way. Sometimes, I see how you light up when you see your mother or cry for her instead of me, and I question my worth — and that makes me go a little harder than T-Pain to show you a I matter.
I love being a dad and can’t believe I get to do this every day. But sometimes, I just feel like an extra.
But I hope that one day when you finally get to read these letters, you know at least one thing is true: I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Love,
Daddy
Appreciation Time: The support for these letters always feels a little different when a man lets me know that they resonate with them. But for another man to contribute his hard-earned money just warms my heart. Thank you so much!
These letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go toward Myles' college savings. A paid subscription also gives you access to all letters I’ve written to Myles, including these letters I write every other week or so, where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.
If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support Myles’ college plan, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.
And if you are on Substack, please restack this letter and recommend it so I can share this love with the world.
Let me know your thoughts:
Are you a dad? Are you a good one? How do you know?
Am I the only one on the planet who hasn’t seen The Office?
Is the bar low for being a father?
Did you know breastfeeding wasn’t as easy as it sounds? Before the baby, I thought you just pop it in. Just me? Okay. What else wasn’t as easy as it sounded?
Do dads have enough friends? Do any dads want to be friends?
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
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Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?
Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love
This is so good. Your curiosity around parenthood/manhood/fatherhood is powerful.
Powerful stuff, Marc. Really moving. Thank you for this