Learning Out Loud

Parenting isn’t about getting every moment right. It’s about what happens after — the pause, the ownership, and the quiet work of showing up better.

Giovanni recently got his driver’s permit. This past Sunday, as he was driving the family to dinner (with Rocco and me strategically in the back seat😰), I noticed how many directions my wife and I were throwing at him. As we were getting close to the restaurant, the

unsettling sound of screaming sirens from a state police car startled us all. There was a lot of yelling (mostly coming from the front passenger seat 😁), with directions on what to do (and what not to do).

As the moment passed and we got our bearings, I commented that, in fairness, Gio had never been exposed to that situation, one that can momentarily rattle even the most seasoned drivers. Once we recognized the context, we all had a good laugh.

But later, at dinner, Gio brought the moment up again. That’s when Rocco chimed in:

“Gio, you’re lucky. Dad hasn’t ever crashed out on you.”

That comment struck me.

I know I’ve “crashed out” more times than I care to admit. We’ve all had those tense parenting moments, where our emotions get out ahead of our reasoning. Where fear, frustration, or stress takes the wheel for a few seconds too long.

I’ve really tried to limit those moments. They were commonplace in my childhood. Pretty much nightly. So when Rocco said he could only remember three times I’ve lost it, I felt a strange mix of pride and sadness.

Pride, because three times in 17 years of parenting doesn’t seem so bad.

Sadness, because I know exactly which three he’s talking about. I remember the look on his face in each one. I remember the silence that followed. And I hate that those moments take up space in his memory.

As we talked through them, I looked at Rocco and apologized.

In that moment, I realized: this is part of the work we commit to as parents.

I could have downplayed his memory, brushed it off, or said he exaggerated, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to rewrite the moment. I wanted to own it. I wanted him to know I see it, too, that I see him.

Because trying to be a better father doesn’t mean pretending we always get it right. It means being honest when we don’t. It means showing our kids that accountability isn’t weakness, it’s strength.

The truth is, I’ve messed up. But I keep returning, trying, owning it, doing the work.

Sometimes it’s awkward. It’s definitely humbling. But more than anything, it matters.

Because in those moments, we show them that repair is possible. That perfection isn’t the foundation of our relationships. That love isn’t conditional. And that an honest apology, combined with how we choose to show up next, means everything.

Reflecting on that evening’s dinner conversation, I realize how easily that moment could have been lost. How it could’ve passed as just a flippant comment. But it served as a quiet reminder that even when we get it wrong, we still have a chance to make it right. Not perfectly, but honestly.

And years from now, I hope that’s what they’ll remember too.