I Call it Wisdom. My Kids Call it Rambling.

Passing along insights (solicited or not), and what we learn when we least expect it.

A father sharing wisdom with his boy

Sometimes the wisest thing a man can do is sit still, speak softly, and stay close.
~ unknown (but maybe it was your dad)~

They used to hang on every word.

When they were little, I could tell them the moon was made of cheese, and they’d ask if we could go get a slice. I had the voice of God, the patience of Job, and the answers to life’s great mysteries. . . like why frogs croak, why bedtime matters, and why moms always seem to know what we’re up to. Oh, and let’s not forget the biggie. . . “Why do those bugs butts light up?”.

But somewhere around the time their legs grew longer and their ears grew shorter, something changed.

Suddenly, my insights became “lectures,” my metaphors became “dadisms,” and my life experiences? Rambling. At best.

And if I happened to start a sentence with “Back in my day…”, well, that was an open invitation for eye rolls, sudden trips to the fridge, or the ever-effective “Oh shoot dad, I’ve gotta go finish something.”

But I kept talking. Not always because I thought they were listening but because I remembered what it was like to be their age. To think I already knew it all. To not realize I was walking into lessons I didn’t know I needed.

So I talked. And listened. And watched.

And I learned that the delivery changes over time but the message matters just the same. I think there are four clear stages to this process.

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In the early years it’s the pedestal stage

In those early days, wisdom is welcomed. You’re the hero in the cape, the fixer of bikes, the translator of playground politics, and the almighty controller of the TV remote. You say something like, “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard,” and they beam like you invented it.

They ask real questions like “Why do people get sick?”, and expect real answers.

They believe you’re invincible, and sometimes you believe it, too.

But here’s the truth they don’t tell you: that pedestal has an expiration date.

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Next comes the eyeroll era

Middle school hits, and suddenly you’re outdated. Your references are too old. Your jokes are too dad. Your advice is now interference.

You give them a pearl of wisdom, and they give you a look that says, “I saw that on TikTok a week ago, Pops.”

You try to explain the value of patience, and they respond by tapping their phone screen like it’s broken because something took longer than 3 seconds to load.

This is the stretch where a man learns the art of the subtle seed. . . tossing truth out there without expectation, hoping it takes root in the silence that follows.

Because while they may not ask for wisdom, they’re always absorbing the atmosphere. They watch more than they listen. They learn more from how you live than what you say. They’re sponges thst look like kids.

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Then comes the young adult shift when the echo returns

Then, somewhere around their mid-20s, something strange happens.

They call.

And they ask.

“Dad, how did you handle this when you were my age?”

“Can I run something by you?”

That’s when you realize that all that rambling… maybe it stuck after all.

It shows up in the way they talk to their own kids. In the way they fight fair in a relationship. In the way they handle pressure.

Sometimes they even quote you.

And sometimes, if the stars align just right, they even thank you.

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Finally, arriving with the silver years comes stoicism & subtlety

Now, in my silver years (fine, let’s call it platinum), I’ve learned the most delicate art of all:

Knowing when to speak… and when to just be there.

These days, I don’t always offer answers. I don’t push advice like I used to. I let the silence do some of the work. I nod more. I listen better. And when I speak, I try to keep it short, honest, and soft enough not to bruise, but true enough not to forget.

Wisdom isn’t always flashy. It’s not a TED Talk. Sometimes it’s just sitting on the tailgate with your hand on your kid’s back, saying:

“I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve been where you are. And I’m not going anywhere.”

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Final thoughts (and a truth we often avoid)

Here’s the part I don’t say out loud often: most of the “wisdom” I passed along wasn’t just for them. It was for me, too. A reminder of what I’ve learned. A way to make sense of the road I’ve walked. A breadcrumb trail I leave behind just in case they need to find their way back one day.

So if you’re a parent who feels unheard, unheeded, or underappreciated, keep planting. Seeds take time. And kids, like crops, don’t grow on your schedule.

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Call it rambling. Call it storytelling. Call it whatever you want.

But when my time here wraps up, I hope they remember a few things I said. And mostly I hope they remember how I made them feel when I said it.

Because that… that’s the real wisdom.

So maybe I ramble. Maybe I repeat stories they’ve heard a dozen times. Maybe my timing isn’t always great, and my metaphors are a little dusty.

But I’ve lived long enough to know that life’s lessons don’t come wrapped in perfect words. They show up in real moments, messy conversations, and quiet tailgate talks at the end of a long day.

And if all I leave behind are a few good stories, a few steady truths, and a memory of being there when it mattered then I’ve done just fine.