If you answer “yes” to these 10 questions, you’re a better parent than you give yourself credit for

Some of the kindest parents I know are the hardest on themselves.

They remember the moments they snapped and forget the dozens of quiet saves they pulled off before breakfast.

In my sixties, with grown kids and grandkids who can wrap me around a finger in five seconds, I’ve learned that “good parenting” isn’t a mood or a single day—it’s a pattern.

If you say “yes” to most of the questions below, you’re doing better than you think.

Answer honestly. No one’s grading this. Think of it like a mirror with soft lighting.

1. When you mess up, do you circle back and repair?

Did you raise your voice and then come back to say, “I’m sorry. I was frustrated, and I shouldn’t have spoken that way”? Do you try to make the amends fit the ding—short, sincere, and followed by a change in how you handle the same moment next time?

If you’re nodding, that’s huge. Adults who repair teach kids the most hopeful truth in the world: relationships survive honesty. As I’ve said in a previous post, repair beats perfection. The “I’m sorry” you model now becomes their future resilience when they inevitably get something wrong.

2. Do you protect the essentials even when the day goes sideways?

On chaotic days, do the basics still happen—some form of real food, a bedtime-ish routine, and a calm-ish goodnight even if the teeth brushing was a diplomatic summit? I’m not asking if you’re a Pinterest parent. I’m asking whether your kids can count on a few anchors when everything else is wobbly.

If yes, you’re giving them nervous system ballast. Children don’t need flawless days; they need predictable touchpoints. A hug at drop-off, a snack that isn’t three kinds of sugar, lights down around the same time—these little metronomes keep the song of the day from falling apart.

3. Do you say “no” even when “yes” would make you popular?

Do you hold a line—bedtime, screens, parties, “we don’t talk to people like that”—knowing it might buy you a slammed door now and respect later? Do you insist on seatbelts, helmets, and manners even when everyone else seems to be improvising?

If you can say yes here, you’re practicing the unglamorous version of love: boundaries with a seatbelt. Kids don’t remember every “no.” They remember that they were kept safe and that your word meant something. That becomes an inner compass they carry when you’re not there to be the guardrail.

4. Do you choose curiosity over control at least once a day?

When your kid is melting down, do you sometimes ask, “What’s one small thing that would help right now?” When your teen says something wild, do you try, “Tell me more,” before you launch into a lecture? Around homework, do you ask, “What’s your plan?” instead of writing the plan for them?

If you answered yes, you’re building their voice alongside your authority. Curiosity doesn’t mean abdication. It means you’re teaching them to know themselves. A parent who listens creates a future adult who doesn’t need to yell to be heard.

5. Do you apologize without asterisks?

This is different from Question 1’s repair. I mean the apology without performance: “I’m sorry. I missed it,” instead of “I’m sorry you felt that way,” or “I’m sorry, but if you hadn’t…” Do you keep it brief, own your part, and stop there?

If yes, you’re giving your child a template most adults don’t have. You’re teaching accountability without shame. That skill will save them friendships, romances, and jobs. It will also make home a place where truth can safely land.

6. Do you care more about the long game than the daily scoreboard?

When your child struggles—grades dip, friendships get messy, tryouts go sideways—do you fight the urge to fix it instantly and instead help them build the muscles they’ll need next time? Do you ask, “What did you learn?” or “What’s one step you can take?” instead of emailing the coach at midnight?

If yes, that’s long-game parenting. It hurts sometimes. But kids who are allowed to struggle in safe ways grow a sturdiness that no trophy can hand them. You’re raising someone who can handle life, not just a someone who can impress in the moment.

7. Do you notice and name effort more than outcome?

Do you say things like, “I saw how you stuck with that,” “You were patient with your sister,” or “You handled disappointment without breaking anything,” as much as you cheer for the win or the A? Do you catch them doing small good and say it out loud?

If yes, you’re feeding the right wolf. Outcome praise is fine; effort praise is fuel. Kids become what we mirror. If we mirror grit, kindness, and repair, they chase those. If we only mirror results, they hide when results falter. Your attention is a curriculum—what you notice, they repeat.

8. Do you keep one small ritual no matter how busy you are?

Maybe it’s a short bedtime story, a weekly walk, Saturday pancakes, a “high/low” chat in the car, or a three-minute check-in before school: “What’s the plan today?” Routines can be tiny. The point is that they’re sticky.

If you answered yes, you’re giving your kids what memory grabs hold of—repetition with warmth. When they look back, these rituals are the timestamps that make childhood feel like a place, not a blur. You don’t need complexity. You need presence that repeats.

9. Do you speak about yourself the way you hope they’ll speak about themselves?

When you mess up dinner, do you say, “I’m a disaster,” or “That didn’t work—let’s try again”? When you forget something, do you say, “I’m so stupid,” or “I need a list next time”? Little ears collect our self-talk like pebbles.

If you’re modeling humane language about your own mistakes—even 60% of the time—you’re teaching them to be a friend to themselves. That shows up on their faces. It shows up in how quickly they try again. It shows up in the way they treat classmates and later, partners. Self-kindness is contagious.

10. Do you leave room for joy on ordinary days?

Not the expensive kind. I mean the small, reliable joys: a silly song in the kitchen while you wash dishes, a walk where you let them set the route, a five-minute dance party, a shared joke that still makes no sense a year later, pointing out the crescent moon like you found it.

If yes, you’re proving that home is not just a list of chores and corrections. It’s a place where delight is allowed to live. Joy is not a luxury; it’s glue. It helps children believe life is worth participating in—and it helps you remember why you signed up for this job.

A tiny story from the park

There’s a dad I see on my morning loop who, without fail, kneels to tie his daughter’s shoe and then waits while she tries to re-tie it herself. It takes forever. I’ve watched it. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t huff, doesn’t perform patience for the crowd. He just waits, coaching quietly: “Pull this one through. Yup. Try again.”

One day she nailed it. He didn’t hoist her into the air or announce it to the pigeons. He just whispered, “Nice work,” and they started walking. That whisper was louder than a parade to me. It sounded like a man who knows he’s building someone, not just finishing a task.

If you answered “no” to a bunch—now what?

Welcome to the human club. No parent is a clean sweep on this list. I still miss bedtime stories because I start washing dishes and suddenly the kitchen has opinions. I still talk too much when a simple, “Tell me more,” would have done the job.

Pick one question and turn it into one small habit this week. Examples:

• If repair is hard, script it once: “I’m sorry. I spoke harshly. You didn’t deserve that.” Put it on a sticky note inside a cabinet.

• If curiosity is rare, ask one question at dinner that isn’t about results: “Who were you kind to today?”

• If joy keeps getting bumped, schedule a ten-minute “nothing useful” block after homework.

• If self-talk slips, change one sentence: swap “I’m terrible at this” for “This is tricky, and I’m learning.”

Small beats dramatic. Consistency beats mood.

What this checklist isn’t

It isn’t an indictment. It isn’t a competition. It’s not even exhaustive. There are a hundred ways to be a good parent in a hundred different homes. This list is just a flashlight in the messy room of self-critique—a way to spot the things you are doing so you can stop pretending you’re failing at everything.

What your kids will remember (that you might be undercounting)

They’ll remember that you showed up to the unimportant stuff.
They’ll remember the calm apology after you lost your temper.
They’ll remember the silly oatmeal faces, the way you sang names to make chores less boring, the time you admitted you didn’t know and looked it up together.
They’ll remember that home had edges and softness.
They’ll remember that when they were scared, you let them be small for a minute before you asked them to be brave.

Years from now, you’ll hear sentences you once said coming out of their mouths—some you’ll want back, many you’ll be proud of. The point isn’t to be perfect. It’s to be patterned in the direction of love, safety, and growth.

A simple, repeatable template (for busy, real life)

• Morning: One kind sentence, even if it’s rushed: “We’re a team today.”

• Afternoon/Evening: One curiosity question: “What made you smile / frown?”

• Night: One repair or affirmation if needed: “Tough day. I’m still on your side.”

• Weekly: One tiny ritual that’s almost impossible to cancel: a 15-minute walk, a library run, pancakes that look like abstract art.

Run that most weeks and the score takes care of itself.

The short version you can keep handy

If you repair after you mess up, protect the essentials, hold boundaries, choose curiosity, apologize cleanly, play the long game, praise effort, keep a small ritual, model kind self-talk, and make room for joy—then yes, you’re a better parent than you give yourself credit for.

Take the win. Then pick one line to strengthen this week. That’s how families grow—not by grand gestures, but by small, repeated choices that tell your kids, “You’re safe. You’re seen. You’re loved.”

So, which question are you already a quiet “yes” to—and which one gets a tiny nudge from you tonight?