Last week, I sat down with my old financial records and calculated something that made my stomach drop: Between 1985 and 2007, I spent roughly $480,000 raising my two boys.
That’s nearly half a million dollars on everything from diapers to driving lessons, braces to baseball camps.
But here’s what really got me: I hear from them maybe once a month now, if I’m lucky.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying my kids owe me phone calls because I paid for their upbringing. That’s not how love works.
But sitting there with those numbers in front of me, I couldn’t help but think about all the things I prioritized back then that seem so meaningless now.
The expensive summer camps. The latest gaming systems. The bigger house in the “better” school district.
What if I’d known then what I know now? What if someone had told me that all those overtime hours and financial sacrifices wouldn’t guarantee close relationships with my adult children? Would I have done things differently?
You bet I would have.
1) I wouldn’t have confused providing with parenting
For years, I thought being a good father meant being a good provider. After all, that’s what my own father taught me. Work hard, bring home the paycheck, keep the family comfortable.
But somewhere along the way, especially when I started climbing the ladder in HR, I began measuring my success as a dad by what I could buy my kids rather than how much time I spent with them.
New bikes? Check. Latest video games? Got ’em. Actually sitting down and playing those games with them? Well, I was usually too tired after work.
I remember one Christmas when my younger son opened his presents, thanked me politely, then went straight to his room.
Linda gently pointed out later that he’d been hoping I’d help him build the model airplane kit I’d bought him. Instead, I’d dozed off on the couch watching football.
Those model pieces are probably still in a box somewhere. But that missed opportunity? That’s gone forever.
2) I would’ve said “no” to more overtime
During my boys’ teenage years, my department went through a major restructuring. Suddenly, I was working sixty-hour weeks, sometimes more. The money was great. We paid off the mortgage early and started college funds that would cover everything.
But you know what my sons remember from those years? That I missed most of their high school basketball games. That I was always “just finishing up one more thing” when they wanted to talk. That even when I was physically present at dinner, I was mentally still at the office.
The ironic thing? I spent thirty years helping other people solve their workplace problems, but I never solved my own biggest one: Learning when to close the laptop and just be Dad.
3) I wouldn’t have stepped back when they needed me most
This one haunts me. When my boys hit their teens, right when work got crazy, I convinced myself they needed space. “Teenagers don’t want their parents around,” I told myself. It was convenient logic that let me justify all those late nights at the office.
But looking back? Those were the years they were figuring out who they were, making big decisions, facing real pressures for the first time. And where was I? At another pointless meeting that nobody remembers now.
A colleague recently told me her teenage daughter still crawls into bed with her some nights just to talk. When I heard that, I realized how many conversations I probably missed because I assumed my boys wanted independence when maybe they just wanted their dad.
4) I would’ve learned their love languages earlier
Have you ever heard of love languages? I didn’t discover this concept until after my kids were grown. Turns out, not everyone feels loved the same way. My older son, I learned way too late, valued quality time. My younger one? Words of affirmation.
And what did I give them? Gifts and acts of service. I worked myself to the bone to provide things they never asked for while missing what they actually needed. It’s like I spent twenty years speaking French to kids who only understood Spanish.
5) I wouldn’t have outsourced the hard conversations
Whenever tough topics came up—girls, peer pressure, future plans—I’d often defer to Linda. “Your mother’s better at this stuff,” I’d say, heading back to my home office.
But boys need their fathers’ perspectives too. They need to hear how we navigated challenges, made mistakes, figured things out.
Instead, I stayed safely in my comfort zone of work talk and sports scores, missing countless opportunities to really connect.
6) I would’ve shared my struggles, not just my successes
My boys grew up thinking Dad had it all figured out. I never told them about the promotion I didn’t get, the nights I lay awake worrying about layoffs, or the time I completely botched a presentation. I thought I was protecting them, being strong.
But what message did that send? That it’s not okay to fail? That they couldn’t come to me with their problems because Dad doesn’t have problems?
One of my sons recently told me he never felt he could measure up. That broke my heart. All those years of trying to be Superman, and all I did was make my kids feel like they could never fly.
7) I wouldn’t have waited for “someday”
- “When things slow down at work, we’ll take that camping trip.”
- “After this project, we’ll have more family time.”
- “Once you boys are older, we’ll really get to know each other.”
I had a million versions of “someday.” But someday has a way of never coming, doesn’t it? And before you know it, your kids are grown with families of their own, and all those camping trips exist only as regrets.
8) I would’ve fought harder to stay present
Even when I was home, was I really there? Or was I checking emails during dinner, thinking about tomorrow’s meeting during bedtime stories, mentally solving work problems while throwing a baseball in the backyard?
My granddaughter asked me something recently that stopped me cold: “Grandpa, why do you look at your phone more than you look at me?”
Out of the mouths of babes, right? But it made me realize this has been my pattern for decades. Always somewhere else, even when I was right there.
Closing thoughts
That half-million dollars I spent raising my kids? I’d trade it all for a closer relationship with them now. For regular phone calls that aren’t just about scheduling holiday visits. For the easy conversation we never quite developed.
The good news? It’s not too late to change. I’m working on being the grandfather I wish I’d been as a father. Present. Available. Interested in their lives beyond their achievements.
And maybe, just maybe, my sons will read this and understand that their old man is still learning, still growing, still trying to figure out how to show them they’ve always been worth more than any paycheck I ever earned.
What about you? If you could go back, what would you tell your younger parent self?
