As a father, I am angry about something almost every day.

To be clear, I don’t like being angry. For me, constantly being angry is the hardest part of being a parent, even harder than changing diapers or staying up all night with a sick child.

Sometimes I feel angry because of something one of my sons did, say, punching me in the stomach while having a tantrum. In that case, I am angry at them and their behavior.

What I’ve realized, though, is that I am not usually angry at them as much as I think. The aftermath of a series of sibling “incidents” this weekend was a good example of this.

I realized I was angry because I’m feeling inadequate as a father right now. One of our sons is going through something painful - he wouldn’t deliberately abuse his younger brother if he wasn’t in some deep emotional spiral - and I haven’t been able to help him. He’s a good kid who needs the care of a father, and I’m failing.

It makes me angry that he throws Hot Wheel cars at his brother without provocation, sure. But I’m not angry at him, as much as being angry at myself.

I’m angry that he’s going through genuine suffering about something. I’m angry that I don’t know what it is. I’m angry that I can’t help him. I’m angry that Robyn has exhausting days at home intervening to mitigate the effects of volatile behavior, on top of her heavy work schedule.

I’m not angry at him, I’m angry at myself for letting the side down.

This seems obvious, but it has been a revelation. Practically speaking, it’s a much different parenting strategy if I’m angry at him vs. if I’m angry at myself. If I’m angry at my son, that’s a negotiation and a coaching moment. But if I’m angry at myself, I have to focus on getting my own emotional state stable.

After all, how could I help him if I’m not even sturdy? It’s the airplane principle applied to parenting: if I want my son to be calm, so he can realize it’s not kind to spit on my shirt, I have to be calm enough to help him chill out.

This weekend, while reflecting on this, my long-running feelings of guilt, inadequacy, and shame finally surfaced. When my oldest asked me, “will you love me after you die?” Is when I finally lost it.

I love these kids so much, I thought, how can I fail them so badly? How am I struggling so much, even after learning valuable skills in theraphy last year, like “special time” and emotional coaching?

He deserves better.

And yet, I know my self-flagellation is ultimately hypocritical. I’m so particular about telling my sons that, “mistakes are part of the plan, all we need to do is learn from them.” And yet, I have been reluctant to take my own advice, for months now.

I am not a perfect man. I am not a perfect husband or father. My family does suffer, on my watch. The world tells me that this is not what good men and good fathers let happen. Failing at what I care about most - being a husband and father - makes me angry, and honestly, ashamed.

And yet, we cannot allow ourselves to go down this road as fathers or as parents. We cannot be angry at ourselves for not being gods or ashamed that we aren’t superheroes. To do so would be the definition of futile and irrational, because we are not gods nor are we superheros. It is simply not possible.

What we can do is adjust. We can choose to stop being angry at ourselves. And then we can choose to examine ourselves and really listen to the kid in front of us. And honestly, I think an act of adjustment can be as simple: take a pause, do some box breathing, and then ask, “is there something that you’re having a hard time saying?”

Because even though our kids don’t come with a handbook, they, luckily, are the handbook. And then, finally, we can change our posture and try something different.

We can let all that anger, guilt, and shame go so that we can stop making ourselves into crazy people. And then, we can use the energy and clarity we’ve gained to do better.

Let’s say it together, my brothers, today and every day, “I promise not to be a superhero, but a father who listens, who learns, and who loves, even in the midst of my anger.”