I Was a Single Dad, But I Sorely Lacked the Skills to Be a Mom

They needed ponytails, lice treatments, and someone who knew what it meant to be a girl. I needed help.

 

When my kids were younger, I only got 60 days of visitation per year. By any measurement, that sucked. During those two months, I drove them to camp, signed permission slips, packed lunches, and took them to check-ups. I was good at the logistical parts of parenting.

 

But I wasn’t a mom. I didn’t know how to treat lice, make a ponytail, or explain puberty. I didn’t grow up with sisters. I didn’t know what girls needed—not really. And for a while, I was lost.

 

What saved me was a rotating cast of women who showed up when I needed them most.

 

Melinda worked the front counter at our community center. She loved my kids from the second she met them. We stopped by several times a week, and every time, Melinda had something—a sticker, a bracelet, a tiny gift that made my girls feel seen. Over time, her gifts grew into costume jewelry that made them feel older than they were, which made them feel cool, which made them want to come back.

 

Next came Glydes, who ran the local Italian place with her husband, Felipe. At first, the kids stuck to noodles with butter. Then they graduated to marinara. One night, Glydes invited them into the kitchen to make their own pizzas. They rolled the dough, spread the sauce, chose their toppings, and watched the pizzas bake. After that, they were pizza snobs—only interested in the ones they made themselves.

 

At Starbucks, there was Alexis—a college student who let my kids hang around and sneak puppuccinos to dogs. One day, they asked if they could help her make whipped cream. Alexis, because she was that kind of person, said yes. She handed over the pressurized dispenser and walked them through the steps. Eventually, they knew their way around the café. One evening, my middle daughter rang up a customer’s order herself. The guy gave her a five and told her to keep the change. “You’re a great barista,” he said. She beamed.

 

 

But the moment I really knew I was out of my depth was when summer camp announced a lice outbreak.

 

I pulled out my phone and whispered, “Siri, what is lice?”

 

One of the moms—Maggie—overheard me. “Do you need help?” she asked.

 

Yes. Yes, I did.

 

That night she came over with her own kids and walked me through it: how to apply the solution, wash the bedding, vacuum the furniture. “You have to keep this up for a week,” she said. “Minimum.”

 

I sighed. “What a pain in the ass.”

 

“It gets worse the longer you wait,” she said. “When do they go home? Maybe send them back with lice and let mom handle round two.”

 

That’s when I realized: I was learning.

 

Over time, I got better. I could do a ponytail and eventually learned to French braid. I got over my squeamishness. I learned how to listen. I stopped looking at the world like a weekend dad and started thinking like a full-time parent.

 

I don’t know if my kids ever noticed the shift. But if they didn’t, I wish them luck when their own kids come home from camp with lice.