June 14, 2026
My twin boys are 16 months old. I love them a great deal, but not in a way that hinges on seeing myself in them. In fact, they’re remarkably different: from each other, from me and Emily, and from grownups in general. After spending so much time in the company of babies, then toddlers, I’m struck by a couple thoughts.
While infants have a marvelous sweetness and innocence, they also abound with traits we would consider terrible in any grownup: jealousy, solipsism, profound selfishness, insanely short fuses. None of this by way of judgment; these are just the factory settings! If these are a person’s factory settings, it follows that a person’s default state is not good. Generosity, compassion, bravery, selflessness: we don’t get these for free. We must learn and cultivate them. Becoming good, then, is a project of nurture, not nature. Spending time with babies underlines what a colossal accomplishment it is to become a grownup.
These factory settings underline why the deepest love must be unconditional, not earned by good behavior. This is obvious for babies, but I suspect it generalizes. We cannot overly condemn each other for failures to be good. Such failures are the norm, the default, the baseline rather than the exception. What is exceptional is to be good: to be a grownup. All of us occasionally lapse and return to baseline; when we do, we, like babies, are still worthy of love.
Perhaps this is where some of a parent’s deep love comes from: seeing their child, seeing ordinary age-appropriate behaviors, and realizing what a tremendous amount of growth they already represent. (“My child shared!”) You stop seeing children as defective grownups, and start seeing grownups as extraordinary children. Of course, it’s theoretically possible to see all people this way. Insofar as kids teach you that every person is a baby—helpless, innocent, incapable of grownup goodness—who somehow grew and developed into someone who’s flawed but often good, they teach you to give people a whole lot more credit.
One more way babies cultivate compassion: they strike such a contrast with the hardness of the world. We create these gentle coccoon worlds for them, full of love and tenderness and care, all the while knowing that we must someday turn them out on their own. We look at the way the world treats some people, know that they were babies too, and despair. It’s made me resent the hardness of the world. It’s even nudged me to think harder about my own ethics: if the world must be this way, must I take part in it? For the first time, I’m engaging in real charity; I’m thinking much harder about eating meat; I suppose I too am growing in some way I’m still figuring out.
There’s a notion, popular among Silicon Valley types, of “extreme ownership.” The ownership mindset says: I take full responsibility for (“own”) everything I can control; even if it’s not nominally my job, I do whatever it takes. Parenting must be the world’s wildest experience of extreme ownership—not just for the responsibility it asks of you, but for the range.
First, with a newborn, your challenge is to shoulder a level of extreme ownership that puts startup founders to shame. No matter what happens, it’s your problem. That diarrhea that leaked through the diaper and onto the couch? You own it. (The baby is just a baby; how could it be otherwise?) The over-tired toddler that can’t be soothed? You own the duty of emotional regulation, both yours and theirs, because the toddler doesn’t know how. The infant waking up at 11, then again at 2, then again at 4:30? You own addressing its hunger, and eventually helping it learn to sleep better. You’ll be tempted to experience things as happening to you (“why won’t this *!%^# baby just sleep!”), but you are the agent; you are the grownup; you (and hopefully your partner) own the challenge of addressing every situation you encounter. Extreme ownership.
…And then the years go by, and (I am told) the fundamental challenge becomes steadily giving up ownership. Letting your child make mistakes. Letting them be disappointed or rejected. Letting them become their own person, different from you. Letting them leave you, and decide on their own terms what sort of relationship they want with you. Relinquishing ownership altogether, so they can own their own lives.
I have not yet tackled any of these latter challenges, though I already dread them. But it’s remarkable, even from here, to see the range we’re called to navigate. Not so much extreme ownership as extreme flexibility in ownership, from all to none.
I’m not sure if this is a reflection on parenting or on aging, but it’s interesting to enter a chapter of life where the things I used to consider “wants” become “shoulds.” Formerly these were treats, guily pleasures; now they’re becoming homework, eating your vegetables. Exercise has always been something I did because I wanted to; it felt good and cleared my head. I’ve never really wondered “should I exercise more.” (Maybe “should I train more,” for a big goal or competition, but that’s a want, not a should.) But now, pretty much for the first time ever, I’m realizing I really ought to try to exercise more. The good thing is that I still want to! The difference now is that 1.) it matters more and more for health, and 2.) it’s less and less likely to “just happen” if I don’t force it.
Overall this feels mostly good. For years (school, college, the 20s and early 30s), the “shoulds” were mostly about grinding through academic and professional challenges. I’m not done with those, but I’m sure not hungry for them the way I used to be. In turn, the “shoulds” right now all look a lot like exercise: things that used to feel like treats, things I used to do in the spare hours until I “should” get back to work. Cultivating close friendships. Building some relaxation into life. Maintaining interests and hobbies (say, writing). Cherishing the company of my family. Sleeping. I sense that these, more than any professional goal, are the key inputs to how good a life I’ll have in, say, 20 years.
(The only wrinkle: I’ve never really learned how to work at these. Yes, it’s a pleasant situation when the things you should do are the things you want to do—but don’t lose sight of the fact that failing at them has mounting consequences.)
One more “should”: appreciate this chapter of life for what it is. At one point, right after the twins were born, I caught myself thinking of this season of life as late spring or perhaps early summer. The end of youth, the beginning of what comes after. Don’t kid yourself: this may well be the absolute peak of midsummer, the dazzling sun-drenched apex, that sweltering July day in which the first dry leaves remind you of fall. This season has everything: a happy marriage, kids (all potential, so young that there’s nothing to resent or regret), good health, good health for my and Emily’s parents, rewarding and lucrative work. It’s hard to imagine how any major life change could be for the better. So, yes, perhaps this season somehow is late spring or early summer—but I should live as if it’s summer’s peak.