You know, I was at the grocery store last week watching a young dad trying to squeeze his SUV into a tight parking spot.
He must have pulled forward and reversed at least four times, eventually giving up and finding a bigger space two rows over. His little boy in the backseat looked deflated. And it hit me — this was exactly the kind of moment that never happened with the working-class fathers of my generation.
My old man could slide our beat-up station wagon into the tightest parallel parking spot without breaking a sweat. One smooth motion, maybe a quick adjustment, and we were perfectly positioned six inches from the curb.
As kids, we thought he had superpowers. But here’s what I’ve come to understand after all these years: it wasn’t just about the parking.
The theater of competence
Think about it. For many working-class fathers of past generations, opportunities to demonstrate mastery in front of their children were surprisingly rare.
These men worked long hours in factories, on construction sites, or in trades where their kids never saw them in action. They couldn’t bring their children to watch them operate heavy machinery or wire a house. Their professional competence remained largely invisible to their families.
But parking? That was different. That was public. That was right there in front of everyone.
Every time my father backed into a parking space at the mall or the church or the ball field, it was a small performance of capability.
He’d throw his right arm over the passenger seat, look back with complete confidence, and guide that car into position like he was born to do it. We’d watch in awe from the backseat, absolutely certain that our dad could handle anything life threw at him.
When I worked in human resources for all those years, I spent a lot of time thinking about how people find dignity and respect in their work.
The guys on the factory floor often told me they wished their families could see them at their best — solving problems, managing complex equipment, being the person everyone turned to when something went wrong. Instead, their kids only saw them tired at the dinner table.
Why backing in mattered so much
Backing into a parking space wasn’t just practical (though it certainly made leaving easier). It was a choice that said something.
While everyone else was rushing to pull straight in, these fathers took the extra minute to do it right. They were showing their kids that some things are worth doing properly, even if they take a bit more effort.
I remember asking my father once why he always backed in. He looked at me like I’d asked why he breathed. “So we can see where we’re going when we leave,” he said simply.
But watching him do it hundreds of times, I learned something else: competence isn’t flashy. It’s quiet, consistent, and purposeful.
There was also something almost defiant about it. In a world where these men often felt overlooked or undervalued, this small act of precision driving was theirs to own completely.
Nobody could take it away from them. No boss could criticize their technique. No customer could complain about the result.
The parallel parking miracle
But if backing into spaces was impressive, parallel parking was pure magic. I swear my father could estimate distances down to the inch just by glancing in the mirror.
He’d pull up alongside the car in front, throw it in reverse, cut the wheel at exactly the right moment, and slide in like the space was made for him.
The first time I tried to parallel park with my own sons in the car, I was mortified. Three attempts, sweating bullets, while they offered “helpful” suggestions from the backseat. I eventually got it, but the spell was broken. Dad wasn’t invincible after all.
But here’s what I realized later: my father probably wasn’t perfect at it either when he started. He just had years of practice by the time I was old enough to notice.
He’d learned it not because he loved parking, but because he needed to be good at something his kids could see. Something that made him more than just the tired guy who came home covered in grease or dust.
What we’ve lost and what we’ve gained
These days, cars practically park themselves. My newer vehicle has cameras and sensors and beeping alerts that make it almost impossible to mess up. My grandkids will never watch me thread the needle into a tight spot through skill alone. They’ll watch me press a button and let the computer do it.
Is something lost in that? Maybe. But something’s gained too.
See, those working-class fathers were trying to fill a gap — the gap between who they were at work and who they were at home.
Today’s parents have different opportunities. They can share their screen during a video call and show their kids what they actually do. They can bring their children to the office occasionally. The invisible labor has become more visible.
But we still need those moments of everyday competence, don’t we? Maybe it’s not parking anymore. Maybe it’s fixing the WiFi router, or cooking a perfect omelet, or knowing exactly how to fold a fitted sheet. Small demonstrations that tell our children: I’ve got this. And by extension: you’re safe with me.
The real lesson wasn’t about parking
After my father passed away when I was in my forties, I spent a lot of time thinking about what he taught me without ever meaning to. The parking thing kept coming back to me. Not because the skill itself was so important, but because of what it represented.
He was showing me that mastery comes from repetition. That confidence comes from competence. That there’s dignity in doing small things well.
Every perfectly executed parking job was a tiny rebellion against the idea that he was “just” a working man. He was an expert at something, even if that something seemed insignificant.
I’ve tried to pass this on to my sons, now grown with families of their own. Not the parking specifically — though I did teach them that too — but the idea that you should find things to be excellent at, especially things your children can witness. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It just has to be yours.
Closing thoughts
Last weekend at the park with my grandkids, I watched a young mother parallel park while her kids cheered from the backseat.
First try, perfect execution. They looked at her like she’d just performed magic. She caught my eye and smiled, and I knew she got it. She understood what that moment meant.
So maybe we don’t all need to be parking experts anymore. But we do need to let our children see us succeed at something, anything, that makes us seem just a little bit invincible. Even if we know we’re not. Especially because we know we’re not.
What’s your version of the perfect parallel park? What small act of competence makes you feel like a superhero in your children’s eyes?
