Every aisle, website, and Instagram ad insists we must have the newest swing, bassinet, or stroller designed by NASA engineers. The irony? Our baby usually prefers our arms.

Every parent eventually unleashes the classic line: “Because I said so.” It’s quick, efficient, and shuts down debate. The problem? When it becomes your default, kids stop learning why rules exist — and eventually, they stop listening altogether.

It starts with ice cream after dinner. Then it’s “one more show,” “one more toy,” “one more cookie.” Before you know it, you’re the genie from Aladdin, granting every wish just to keep the meltdown away.

We might think scrubbing away every germ keeps kids safe. Actually, when we turn homes into cleanrooms, we raise children with fragile immune systems — and anxious views of life.

The tween years are a paradox. One minute they’re reciting climate change statistics like mini-activists, the next they’re crying because their favorite hoodie is in the wash. Parents get whiplash trying to figure out: Do I give them independence? Or do I remind them to brush their teeth for the hundredth time?

When parenting teens we are sometimes left bewildered, staring at the shifting teen weather (mood) patterns like a farmer without an umbrella. Should I plant crops or build an ark... or give up on farming completely? It’s tempting — dangerously tempting — to interpret these shifting moods as deep flaws. We might mutter under our breath: “She’s so dramatic. He’s so lazy. They’re impossible.” But by doing so we are mistaking turbulence for identity.

Every parent’s been there — staring at the unattended phone, convincing themselves it’s “responsible curiosity.” But when parenting turns into private investigation, trust takes the hit. Let's look at why our fear of what we don’t know pushes us to scroll, search, and snoop — and how giving our tweens space to breathe might be the thing that keeps them talking to us in the long run.

There’s a strange, universal moment in parenting teens: one day, your child makes a surprisingly insightful observation about life. Fast-forward to later that same day when this almost-adult, leaves a full glass of milk in their room for three days until it begins to resemble a new species.

Somewhere in the modern parenting handbook (probably buried under Lego sets and a broken Paw Patrol tower), there’s an unwritten rule: good parents provide endless toys. Educational toys. Sensory toys. STEM kits. Wooden Montessori-approved toys. Plastic light-up ones that sing until you lose your mind. But in the end, despite the mountain of options, kids always end up playing with… the cardboard box.

Every generation swears their youth was tougher, purer, and character-building — usually right before a teen rolls their eyes into another dimension. The “Back in My Day” Time Machine unpacks why our nostalgia sounds less like connection and more like competition. Because while you’re reminiscing about dial-up internet, your teen’s just trying to survive high-speed adolescence — and they need empathy more than history lessons.

Every aisle, website, and Instagram ad insists we must have the newest swing, bassinet, or stroller designed by NASA engineers. The irony? Our baby usually prefers our arms.

At some point between ages 11 and 13, many parents stumble into the sticky, blush-filled world of tween crushes. Your kid drops the word “like” in a suspicious tone, or you notice them hovering a little longer around someone at school, and suddenly your inner gossip reporter springs to life. Unfortunately, turning every innocent crush into a family press conference doesn’t strengthen your bond — it embarrasses your tween into retreating further.

It starts with one after-school activity — soccer, maybe. Then comes piano, karate, tutoring, coding, choir. Suddenly your seven-year-old has a calendar more crowded than your own, and you’re sprinting from one parking lot to the next like you’re competing in the Triathlon of Parenting. Let's explore why we do it, how it backfires, and how to reclaim sanity before you need an oil change every month.

Every aisle, website, and Instagram ad insists we must have the newest swing, bassinet, or stroller designed by NASA engineers. The irony? Our baby usually prefers our arms.