What “Giving My Kids the Best I Can” Actually Means After 10 Years of Parenting
The laundry basket was still teetering by the couch when my 12-year-old, Javi, slid his phone across the coffee table last Saturday. It was open to the sign-up page for the regional elite travel hockey team. “Coach says I’ve got a shot if I sign up this week,” he said, not looking me in the eye. He knew our extra cash got eaten up by a $1,200 car repair bill after the alternator died on the way home from grocery shopping three days earlier. Five seconds later, Lila, my 8-year-old, dragged her art bin over, tipped it upside down, and held up a 2-year-old pack of markers where half the caps were lost and the only blue was so dried out it barely left a mark on construction paper. “Can we get the 50-pack with the glitter ones? Emma got them for her birthday.”
I sat there for a minute, that old familiar guilt creeping up the back of my throat. For the first few years of parenting, I thought giving my kids the best I could meant matching whatever I saw other parents giving their kids. When Javi first got into hockey, I picked up extra after-school supervision shifts at the elementary school where I work to pay for new skates and private skills lessons. I skipped two of my own dentist appointments to cover a week-long hockey camp. I bought organic snacks even when they stretched the grocery budget, signed Lila up for three different activities just because all the other kids in her class were in them. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I could give them every advantage, and that’s what being a good parent was.
That Saturday, though, I didn’t have an extra $3,000 for the elite team, plus gas money for two-hour road trips every weekend. I didn’t even have an extra $12 for the marker pack, not if I wanted to cover the electric bill without getting a late fee. Instead of making an excuse or brushing them off, I pulled out my phone, opened my banking app, and blurred the full numbers with my thumb before setting it between them on the table. I pointed to the big red line showing what was left after the car repair. “Here’s where we are right now,” I said. “I can do one of three things right now: buy Lila’s marker pack, keep paying for our current rec hockey league that’s $25 a season, or put all extra toward the car bill so we don’t get late fees. What do we think makes sense for us right now?”
Javi leaned forward and squinted at the screen for a second, then leaned back. “Honestly, I don’t even want to drive two hours every weekend,” he said. “I’d rather keep rec league and still have Saturday mornings to build Lego with Lila. I just wanted to tell you what coach said, that’s all.” Lila twisted the dry blue marker in her hand for a minute, then said, “I only really need the blue one. The dollar store sells single markers, right? Can we just get that, and save the rest for when Javi needs new hockey gloves next winter?”
That moment changed how I think about giving my kids the best. I used to measure “best” against other people’s standards, but now I measure it against my own family’s actual capacity, right now. It doesn’t do anyone any good to stretch myself so thin working extra shifts that I’m too tired to ask Javi about his game or sit through Lila’s bedtime story. I’ve picked up a few small, concrete habits that work for me, that other parents can try too if they’re also tangled up in that guilt of not giving enough.
First, I share simple, age-appropriate trade-offs instead of shouldering all the stress alone. I don’t dump my full financial anxiety on my kids, but I don’t just say “we can’t afford that” and leave it at that, either. Phrasing it as a choice we get to make together takes the pressure off me, and it teaches them how to make decisions with limited resources, which is something they’ll need their whole lives. If one of them asks for an expensive new toy, I just say, “That costs $50. If we buy that, we can’t get ice cream after school every week this month. Which one sounds better to you?” Most of the time, they pick the small, regular thing that matters more to them anyway.
Second, I ask for free or low-cost alternatives before I stress about affording something. When Javi was struggling with algebra last semester, I couldn’t afford an $80-an-hour private tutor like most of the other parents on his team were hiring. I emailed his math teacher after school one day, explained our situation, and asked if she had any extra practice worksheets I could use with him at home. She sent home a whole folder of materials, and even gave me a quick cheat sheet for how they’re teaching algebra now (it’s nothing like when I was in 7th grade, let me tell you). We did 15 minutes of practice after dinner every night, I fumbled through the problems right along with him, and he ended up with a B minus on his final exam—good enough for him, and good enough for me.
Third, I write down three small, free things I gave my kids every week when the guilt creeps in. It only takes two minutes, and it reminds me that most of the things kids remember don’t have a price tag. Last week, my list was 10 minutes of watching Javi test his new Lego drone in the backyard, helping Lila glue googly eyes to her cereal box castle, and letting them stay up 15 minutes late to watch a silly cartoon together after a long week.
I still have bad days. I still scroll through social media sometimes and see families posting ski trips and private tutoring and summer enrichment programs, and I still wonder if I’m shortchanging my kids. Lila still doesn’t have that 50-pack of glitter markers; we’re putting $2 a week aside for it in her piggy bank, and she’ll get it in a couple more months. Javi still talks about maybe trying out for the elite team next year, if we have extra money saved by then. I don’t know what the future will hold, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give them all the advantages other parents can. But right now, showing up for the small stuff, being honest about what we can and can’t do, that’s the best I can give. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. That’s enough for now.
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