Parenting: Now With Bonus Parent-Like Behaviours

It didn’t happen in a single moment. There was no flash of insight or dramatic movie music playing in the background. It was more like the slow drip of a leaky tap — annoying at first, easy to ignore, and then suddenly impossible to miss. One day I looked around and realized: oh no… it’s happening. I’m becoming my parents.

The first sign showed up during a morning routine that felt more like a gentle negotiation with a very small, very determined roommate. My son had just turned three and was moving at his usual pace — which is somewhere between “glacier” and “drifting leaf.” He doesn’t talk much yet, but he communicates just fine with looks, grunts, and the occasional jumble of incoherent words mixed with a word or two in perfect English. As we inched toward the door, I heard myself say it:

“Do you have everything? Are you ready?”

He blinked at me. He had nothing. Not even socks on his feet yet. Why did I say that? Because that’s exactly what my parents said to me. Every morning… in the exact same tired tone. I froze. The transformation had begun.

Then came the dad noises — the involuntary huff when I bend over to pick up a toy, the little grunt when I stand up, the sigh when I lower myself onto the couch after a long day of… well, chasing a small person who moves like he’s both a hyper-caffeinated superman, and an underwater tortoise. I used to laugh at my dad for those sounds. Now I’m producing them like background music.

And let’s not forget my new, deep, unexplainable excitement over sales. The day I caught myself saying, “Two-for-one paper towels? Now that’s a deal,” I swear I heard a distant bell ring. Another small piece of my youth, ceremonially retired.

But the biggest moment—the one that truly sealed it—happened last week. My son was toddling around the living room, moving at a pace that can only be described as glacial. There wasn’t a single thing near him that could cause harm. Not really, anyway. Not a sharp edge, not a toy with ambition, nothing. And yet, before I knew it, out of my mouth came the reflexive, automatic warning:

“Be careful.”

Be careful of what? Oxygen? The floor? The haunting possibility of mild inconvenience? I had become the parent who says “be careful” by instinct alone. That was when I knew: it was too late. The transformation was complete.

It’s not just the warnings, either. I’ve caught myself getting excited about things like early bedtimes, clean kitchen counters, and the rare moment when my kid actually keeps his food on the table instead of launching it into orbit. Better yet, when he actually eats the food we’ve prepared for him! These are the exact things my parents celebrated, and I used to roll my eyes at them. Now, and I hate to say it, I get it. I absolutely get it.

But here’s the thing — the more I notice these little habits slipping into place, the less it bothers me. In fact, it feels sort of like stepping into a role I didn’t really know I was rehearsing for. Maybe this is what happens when you spend your days guiding a tiny human who’s figuring out the world one slow step, one snack, and one puzzled “hmm, I have an idea!” at a time.

You grow up, you live life, and slowly, quietly, you become echoes of the people who raised you.

And honestly? I’m okay with that.

Even if I do grunt every time I pick up a dropped sock.