I’m working like crazy to provide for my family, and yet, every night when I walk in the door, I feel like I’m still coming up short.
Last week, my 6-year-old wanted to bake cookies together. Simple enough, right? Except while he was measuring flour and chattering about dinosaurs, my brain was calculating car repair bills. Two cars, two expensive fixes, and a mortgage that jumped when we moved to get the kids into better schools. So there I was, physically holding a mixing bowl, mentally drowning in a spreadsheet. When he asked me what comes after triceratops in the dinosaur timeline, I said, “uh-huh, buddy, that’s great.”
The look he gave me. Kids know, man. They always know.
This is 49: Construction PM by day. Newsletter writer by night. Studying for my real estate license in the margins. And somehow—still feeling like I’m failing the very people I’m doing it all for. Four kids. Nineteen years of marriage. An ADHD brain that treats focus like a suggestion instead of a requirement. I’ve mastered the art of being in two places at once, which is to say, I’m never fully anywhere.
I ask “How was school?” with genuine interest, then realize five minutes later I have no idea what anyone actually said. I think grabbing pizza on the way home counts as “making dinner special.” I’ve perfected the dad-nod during bedtime stories while mentally reviewing tomorrow’s subcontractor schedules.
Two days ago at the playground, my son yelled—actually yelled—”Daddy, play with me and put your phone away, you are always on that thing!” The other parents looked. I wanted to explain that I was texting my wife about logistics, that it was important, that I was trying to coordinate our impossibly complex life. But to a 6-year-old, none of that matters. To him, I was choosing a screen over the monkey bars.
Again.
The Impossible Math of Modern Fatherhood
Here’s the double bind that keeps me up at night (besides the usual ADHD brain circus): Every hour I work to provide is an hour I’m not connecting. But every hour I take off to connect is an hour I’m not securing their future. It’s like being asked to be in two places at once, except both places are on fire and you’re the only one with a bucket.
The guilt compounds daily. Work late to handle that project crisis? Miss bedtime. Leave work on time? Stress about the promotion I’m probably not getting. Take a mental health day to be present with the kids? Spend it worried about the example I’m setting about work ethic.
My wife—God, my wife—she holds everything together with a grace I can barely comprehend. I only truly see the weight she carries when she has those rare moments of almost breaking, when the overwhelm finally shows through her armor. She’s always giving, never taking time for herself, and here I am adding to her load by being physically present but mentally in three other zip codes.
The worst part? My kids are growing up at warp speed. My 13-year-old barely looks up from her phone. My 10-year-old is already too cool for dad hugs in public. The 8-year-old is deep in his own world of Minecraft and YouTube. And the 6-year-old—the one still excited to bake cookies with dad—how long before he stops asking?
What if they grow up remembering me as the guy who was always there but never really there? The dad who provided everything except his attention?
The Plot Twist I Didn’t See Coming
But here’s what I’ve learned the hard way, usually around 2 AM when the ADHD brain finally decides to process emotions: connection doesn’t demand hours—it demands intention.
I’ve been treating connection like it requires a Caribbean vacation or a perfectly planned daddy-daughter date. Like I need to clear my entire Saturday and plan an elaborate adventure that would make Instagram jealous. But that’s not what my family needs. They don’t need Grand Gesture Dad. They need Right Now Dad—even if Right Now Dad only has 60 seconds.
Last Sunday, I did something revolutionary. I left my phone at home (I know, call the authorities) and went for a bike ride with my wife and 13-year-old. We just rode around the block three or four times. Fifteen minutes, max. We laughed about the neighbor’s multiplying lawn ornaments. My daughter actually told me about some drama with her friends. My wife smiled—really smiled—for the first time in days.
Fifteen minutes. That’s it. And it was better than the last three “family movie nights” where I sat on the couch but mentally reviewed bid proposals.
Five Things Even a Distracted Dad Like Me Can Pull Off
So I’ve been experimenting with what I call “connection hacks”—small enough that even my scattered brain can remember them, quick enough that they don’t trigger my productivity guilt. Here are five that actually work, tested by a dad who once forgot he was at a school play while sitting in the front row:
- The Eye-Level Morning Check-In
Every morning, I kneel or sit eye-to-eye with one kid for 60 seconds. No agenda, no teaching moment. Just: “Hey buddy, I see you.” Sometimes we talk about dreams. Sometimes we just make faces. The 6-year-old usually tells me about his plans to build a rocket. The teenager rolls her eyes—but she shows up. - The One-Minute Mission Question
In the car or at breakfast, I ask: “What’s one thing you’re excited or nervous about today?” Then—and this is the crucial part—I actually listen. The ninja move: ask about it later. “Hey, how’d that math test go?” Suddenly, I’m not just dad. I’m dad who remembers. - The “Did Anything Make You Laugh Today?” Prompt
This one saves car rides. Instead of “How was school?” (which gets “fine” 100% of the time), I ask what made them laugh. Kids always remember the funny stuff. My 8-year-old will launch into a story about milk coming out someone’s nose. My 10-year-old shares the clever jokes her friends tell. Even the teenager cracks once in a while. - The Random Ten-Second Back Hug
This one’s for my wife, who’s usually at the sink or folding laundry or doing one of the 47 things that keep our household from collapsing. I just walk up and hug her from behind for ten seconds. No agenda. No segue into asking what’s for dinner. Just: “I see you.” She usually pauses, leans back, and for just a moment, we’re not parents—we’re us. - The Phone-Down Thank You
Once a day, I put my phone completely down, look my wife in the eyes, and say one specific thing I’m grateful for. Not “thanks for everything you do,” but “thank you for handling that permission slip I forgot about,” or “thank you for not murdering me when I scheduled a call during dinner.” Five seconds. Total game changer.
The Truth About Fighting for Connection
Look, I still mess this up. Constantly. Yesterday I promised to go to the pool and then took a “quick” work call that lasted 45 minutes. Last week I was at my daughter’s soccer game but mentally drafting my newsletter. This morning I checked email while my son told me about his dream.
I’m not Father of the Year. I’m barely Father of the Hour most days.
But these small moves? They’re helping me shift from feeling like I’m failing to feeling like I’m at least fighting. Fighting against the pull of the phone, the weight of the bills, the construction site in my brain that never stops building worry after worry.
The truth is, our kids don’t need us perfect. They need us present—even if it’s only 60 seconds at a time. Our spouses don’t need grand gestures. They need to feel seen—between the chaos and the carpool.
These five connection points are just the beginning. They’re part of a bigger system I built—The Connection Toolkit—with 29 micro-connections (7 daily rituals, 13 conversation prompts, 9 physical gestures) that even a scattered, overwhelmed, trying-to-hold-it-all-together dad can manage. Each one is small enough to sneak past the guilt of “not working,” but powerful enough to make the people you love feel seen.
If you’re struggling with the same balance—wanting to provide but fearing you’re failing at presence—grab the full Toolkit. It’s 24 more simple, doable actions that take less time than your next scroll through your phone but hit harder than any grand gesture ever could.
Because at the end of the day, when my kids are grown and my wife and I are sitting on the porch wondering where the time went, I don’t want to be remembered as the dad who provided everything except himself. I want to be the dad who was there—really there—even if it was just for a few perfectly imperfect moments.
The dad who finally put down the phone and picked up the mixing bowl.
The dad who chose the monkey bars.
The dad who showed up, even when showing up was the hardest thing in the world.
The Focused Fool. A Neurodivergent Dad
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