Tag: parenting-advice

“Just One More…” — What Bedtime Battles Taught Me About the Stoic Virtue of Temperance

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

When my son kept reaching for one more snack, one more story, one more show ( or at least the first 5 minutes to see what happens) — I realized the most loving thing I could do wasn’t saying yes, but holding the line with purpose, clarity, and care.

This is Part 4 of a four-part series on incorporating Stoic principles into my son’s and my life. Each post explores one of the core Stoic virtues, finishing with Temperance.

Temperance:

Desire always asks for more.
Temperance knows when enough is enough.

It always starts with a plea:

“Just one more…”

One more minute.
One more snack.
One more video.
One more chapter, even after we agreed it was the last.

My son says it almost without thinking.
But I hear it for what it is:
A test.
A request.
A reaching out for more —
and maybe a way to delay the next thing he doesn’t want to do.

And the truth is, sometimes I want to say yes. Because I’m tired. Because he’s cute. Because one more feels easier than a meltdown. And I don’t want some moments to end either. Sometimes I’d love to give in — to stretch bedtime a little longer, to enjoy just one more laugh or cuddle. But I’ve come to see that parenting isn’t only about the moment. It’s also about the bigger picture — about what’s healthiest and most meaningful for both of us in the long run.

And that is what Temperance asks of us.

It asks for steadiness, not surrender.
For clarity, not control.
It invites me to stay grounded — even when the easy answer is yes.

Not just for me. But also for him.

Temperance Means Holding the Line with Love

The Stoics saw Temperance not as denial, but as discipline with purpose.
It’s knowing what’s enough — and having the strength to stop there.

The nights, when I said no to a third snack, or paused the screen when the timer beeped, or held him while he cried because he didn’t get what he wanted — that was Temperance too.

Not because I was cold. But because I was clear. Because I was present. Because I wanted to teach him that limits are love, not punishment.

Because love isn’t always about saying yes — it’s about knowing when to say it’s been enough. It’s helping him feel safe in a world that doesn’t bend to every whim. It’s showing him that his needs matter more than his impulses. And that the people who care for him will guide him through disappointment, not avoid it.

A Bedtime Battle, A Bigger Lesson

Last week, he hit his limit. We were three requests past lights out. He had asked for another snack, another video, another glass of water, another everything. And when I gently said, “No more tonight, bud. It’s time to get to bed,” he broke.

Tears. Yelling. Arms crossed tight.
And then finally, climbing into my lap with his face buried in my shirt.

He didn’t need the snack.
Or the screen.
He needed me — to give him some limits and help him reset and get ready for bed.

So I held him.
Not to fix it.
Not to make it go away.
Just to let him know the boundary was still there—
and so was I.

That, too, is Temperance.

Begin With Purpose

Temperance isn’t about being strict for the sake of it.
It’s about starting the day with intention—
and ending it with care.

That means deciding throughout the day: What matters the most right now? And holding that line when things get loud, messy, and emotional.

Even when your kid says,
“Just one more…”

You breathe.
You hold the line.
You love them through it.

Because the world doesn’t need more indulgence. It needs more calm and rational moments. More clarity. More parents who are willing to begin with purpose.

Try This Tomorrow:

For You:
Pick one area where you often give in, out of exhaustion.
Decide ahead of time what “enough” looks like.
Stick to it, gently and without apology, throughout the day.

Together:
Let your child know the plan ahead of time: one show, one snack, one story.
Then offer something more lasting: a snuggle, a conversation, a moment of stillness.

Final Thought

Boundaries aren’t walls.
They’re garden fences,
built to protect what we love.

And inside those fences,
with presence and purpose,
nourishment grows.

The Light Inside: Teaching Kids to Find Their Courage

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment
We can all be brave. We just need to trust ourselves

What a walk through the dark, a quiet warning, and a single statement taught me about courage.

by A Mindful Dad’s Life

Fear is a shadow. Courage is a flame. That’s how the Stoics saw it — not just as bravery, but as the foundation for moral action. A light that helps us step rightly, even when fear is near.

We were leaving a school event not long ago.
The night was cool, and we were walking back to the car.

I asked my son to stay close.
Not because I wanted to scare him,
but because earlier, near the woods,
I’d seen a man who had shouted at people passing by.

I just wanted him aware.
Safe.
Close.

He stayed beside me, as I’d hoped.
But once we were in the car, he looked at me and said something that stuck:

“Kids are pretty helpless. Boys and girls are pretty much defenseless.”

His words landed heavy.
Because I don’t want him moving through the world with that belief.
Not as my son. Not as himself.

Courage Means Acting Even When Afraid:

Here’s what I hope he learns instead:

Courage — Andreia — doesn’t mean being fearless.
It means feeling the fear and still doing what’s right.

Like this:

Can I protect him from every risk?
No.

Can I make the world safe wherever we go?
Not always.

But I can teach him how to face fear without freezing.
I can show him how to step into the braver path when it matters.
That’s Courage. And it’s steady. Quiet. Strong.

For the Stoics, courage was more than boldness — it was ethical strength. Without courage, wisdom stays unspoken, justice goes unseen, and temperance withers. Courage lights the way for all the other virtues to act.

A Tool for Both of Us:

So here’s the practice.

When fear shows up — whether it’s a shadow in the woods,
a tough question in class,
or the moment before trying something new —

Pause.

Ask:
“What would the braver me do right now?”

Then take that step — big or small.
Because you are not helpless.
You are not defenseless.
You are learning every day to be strong, thoughtful, and brave.

Try This Tomorrow:

For You: Notice one moment today where you feel hesitation. Ask yourself: “What’s the braver choice?” Take that step, even if it’s small.

Together: Ask your child to share a time they felt afraid today. Then share one of your own. Talk about the brave step you each took — or could take next time.

Final Thought:

Fear will always be there, a shadow.
But so will courage, a flame.

And courage doesn’t need to roar.
It just needs to whisper “try.”

Every time you listen to that whisper, you light a flame — one that guides you, and one that shows your child how to walk the path with courage too.

We’re not just raising kids. We’re raising ourselves, too.

If you’ve got a saying that works to help your kids be brave— drop it in the comments. Maybe it helps another parent or child light their path.

Because all of this? It’s practice. And practice makes a path we can walk clearly.

This is part 2 of a 4-part series on teaching young children Stoic Virtues. You can find part 1 Here:

Raised by Wolves: The Word I Swore I’d Never Say

On By Ian Toal1 Comment

By: The Mindful Dad’s Life

My son and I have a new favorite food, burritos from Whole Foods. We had one last weekend after a two-hour rock-climbing session, and it was hands down the best thing either of us had eaten in a long time. It’s become a bit of a ritual now: climb hard, burrito recharge.

Yesterday, after a 6-hour track meet, we stopped in again for a late lunch. We were both pretty hungry. My son ordered first. The woman behind the counter was Russian, I think. She was very polite, patient, and attentive. She listened carefully as he confidently asked for a half-pork, half-steak burrito with rice, sour cream, and hot sauce.

He had watched the burrito-making process closely the last time and thought he knew the routine. So when she placed the wrap in the steamer and turned away to grab something, he got a little impatient. Standing on a nearby display shelf, he said loudly, “Where’s the wrap, stupid?”

Without thinking, I grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and pulled him down.

“That is incredibly disrespectful and rude,” I said, my voice low but sharp. “You do not call someone stupid. You don’t know her, and she’s the one working to make your food. She would probably rather be someplace else, and she’s doing her best. You treat her with kindness and respect.”

He nodded silently, eyes downcast. I let go of his shoulders, and he walked a few steps away. A minute later, he came back and tried to play with me, like nothing had happened.

But something had happened: for both of us.

As we stood there waiting for our food, I found myself replaying the moment again and again. The moment cracked open something old in me, something buried deep but not forgotten. Was that the best way to handle it?

Because the truth is, I flinched when I heard that word. Stupid. That word lived in my house growing up. It lived in my mother’s voice. She called me stupid almost every day until I was 16, when I finally stood up and said, “I’m not stupid. I’m actually really smart.” Her response was to come at me with a broom handle. That day, for the first time, I was strong enough to stop her and walk away, unharmed and strangely proud. Proud that I had finally stood up for myself.

That word *stupid* carries a weight in my life. It was never just a word. It was a label, a weapon. So when I heard it from my son’s mouth, even casually, it hit like a wave. My reaction wasn’t just to his moment, it was to mine, still echoing years later.

And yet, my son is not me. He’s a child, not a threat. He was hungry, tired, and trying to be funny. He was pushing the boundary, not breaking it. And I, the man trying so hard to do this right, reacted from a place of pain instead of presence.

In no way do I ever condone the beating of children as a form of discipline. I was, hopefully, the last generation of children to have been beaten by their parents. I was hit with hands, fists, belts, my own toys, cricket bats, and broom handles. It left a very deep mark on my psyche that took years to heal, years to learn to trust, to love, and to feel safe again in my own body.

So I ask myself now: was it okay to grab him like that?

In that moment, it felt necessary. I wasn’t rough. I didn’t yell. But it was immediate and stern. I wanted to stop the behavior before it grew roots. And for boys, who often learn through movement and energy, sometimes a physical redirection can be helpful, but only when it’s calm, non-threatening, and followed by reflection. (That’s the part I didn’t do.)

Still, I know I could have done better. A touch on the shoulder. A quiet crouch to his level. A firm, respectful tone without needing to startle him. I could have protected the moment without letting my old wounds lead the charge.

That instinct I felt—the flash of heat, the pull to act—that’s the wolf in me. The part that learned, as a boy, that no one was coming to protect me, so I had to learn to protect myself. It kept me safe. It gave me strength. But that wolf, while loyal and fierce, now needs to learn how to be gentle around my son.

My son doesn’t need to be hardened to survive. He needs to be guided to thrive.

We never spoke about it again, but I made sure to thank the woman sincerely when she handed me my burrito. Not just for the food, but to show him how I treat others.

I’m still learning.

Still healing.

Still choosing the father I want to be, every single day.

And to any parent reading this who has ever questioned themselves, I see you. You’re not alone. The journey is hard sometimes, but you’re doing the work, and that matters more than perfection ever could.

Why Is Her Belly So Big? Teaching My Son to Talk About Bodies With Kindness

On By Ian Toal2 Comments

The other day, my son stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, hands behind his head, flexing.
He turned sideways, checked his waistline, nodded approvingly, then looked at me and said matter-of-factly and said “I’m always going to have a slender waist.”

I smiled, because, yeah, he gets that flexing part from me. But then he followed it up with,
“Why are some people not in good shape?”

And that’s when I felt it. The moment.
The one where a simple question opens the door to something much bigger.

Curiosity Isn’t Cruel—But It Can Still Hurt

My son is eight, and like many kids his age, he’s starting to notice things.
Bodies. Differences. Who has muscles, who doesn’t. Who moves fast. Who doesn’t.

His mom, for instance, is on the heavier side. He calls her “fluffy” or “soft,” which, in his mind, isn’t an insult—it’s an observation. But the thing is, they’ve had some tension lately.
More than once, he’s asked her why her belly is so big.
And she’s taken it personally, which I understand. Because even though he doesn’t mean it cruelly, it still stings. Words from our kids can cut deeper than we expect.

He Gets the Flexing from Me

Studies show that kids start forming body image beliefs as early as age five. Whether they’re flexing in front of the mirror or repeating something they heard at school, they’re already learning what’s “good” or “bad” about bodies—often from us.

I’m not going to pretend I don’t care about how I look. I lift weights, track my workouts, and yeah, I flex sometimes too.
He sees that. Kids always see.
So when he checks himself out in the mirror or brags about his abs (he’s convinced he has a six-pack, by the way), I recognize that he’s learning pride in his body the same way I once did, by copying someone he looks up to.

That part’s not a problem.
It’s what comes next that matters.

The Dad Lesson: 3 Things I Want Him to Know

1. Health Is More Than Looks

We talked about what it really means to be “in shape.” That it’s not just about looking strong but feeling strong and confident.
“Some people run fast. Some can lift heavy things. Some people take longer to move or heal. That’s all part of being human.”
Bodies change. Bodies age. They carry stories we don’t always see—or even know to ask about.

Other People’s Bodies Deserve Respect

I told him:
“It’s okay to be curious, but asking why someone’s body looks a certain way can make them feel embarrassed or sad. Even if you didn’t mean to hurt their feelings, your words have power.”
We talked about his mom, about how she might feel when he asks about her belly.
And I reminded him that kindness isn’t just about hugs and nice words, it’s also about knowing when not to say something.

It’s Okay to Be Proud; Just Stay Humble

I want him to feel good in his skin. To love the body that helps him climb, swim, run, and wrestle me to the ground in our living room.
But I also want him to understand: muscles don’t make you better than someone else.
“You can be proud of your body, but never use it to make someone feel worse about theirs. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else. Everyone’s body is different—and that difference is what makes us special.” 

Bodies Are Personal—And Powerful

Research confirms that kids absorb how we talk about our own bodies. If they hear us complain about our weight or praise looks above all else, they learn to measure worth the same way. A 2020 study in the Journal of Adolescent Health found that parental comments about weight and appearance are directly tied to children’s body image—both positive and negative.

I keep thinking about how young this starts.
How quickly kids begin to measure themselves—and others.
And how easy it is, without meaning to, to pass on our own hang-ups or judgments.

It’s made me more aware of my own mirror time.
Of how I talk about my body in front of him.
Do I joke about getting old? Complain about my belly? Praise myself only when I “look good”?
Because if I do, he’s soaking it in.

What I Hope He Remembers

I hope he remembers that bodies are amazing, even when they’re soft, wrinkled, scarred, or tired. What makes a body “good” isn’t how it looks, but what it lets us do; hugging, laughing, holding hands, resting, and keeping going.
I hope he keeps flexing in the mirror, proud of what he’s building.
But I also hope he looks at others with softness, too.

The Bottom Line

Science backs this up: teaching empathy and body diversity reduces teasing and fat-shaming among kids. A 2019 study in Pediatrics found that children who learned about body differences and practiced empathy were far less likely to stigmatize or bully peers based on weight. This isn’t just about kindness—it’s about protecting mental health for the long haul.

Being a dad means catching these little moments and turning them into something bigger.
Not with a lecture. Not with shame.
But with presence. With love. With the long game in mind.

Because one day, my son’s going to be a man.
And when he looks at someone who’s different than him—bigger, slower, older, softer—I want him to see a whole person.
Not just a body.

If this story resonated with you, feel free to share it or leave a comment. Let’s help raise a generation that leads with kindness—not comparison.

When Tightening the Reins Backfires: A Mindful Dad Lesson

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

“As soon as I tightened the reins because she had attitude, the attitude got worse.”

A fellow parent said this to me recently, and I couldn’t help but nod. I’ve been there. Honestly, I live there sometimes.

My first instinct, whenever my son pushes back, is to push harder. If he rolls his eyes or mutters something under his breath, my mind goes straight to “Oh no, we’re not doing this.” So I tighten the reins, stricter rules, sharper tone, less wiggle room. I want to make sure he knows I’m serious.

But you know what happens almost every time? His attitude gets worse. The tighter I pull, the harder he pulls back.

And when I step back and think about it, it makes perfect sense.

Why Tightening the Reins Doesn’t Work

Kids, like us, hate feeling controlled. When I tighten the rules without giving him room to breathe, I’m not just setting boundaries, I’m sending the message that I don’t trust him to manage himself. And that message, even if I don’t mean it that way, makes him want to fight back. I usually know when he feels controlled because his first response is to say, “That’s not fair.”

I get it, it’s human nature. We all want to feel heard, even when we’re wrong. And I think for dads, especially, there’s this pressure to be the enforcer. We’re supposed to keep things under control, to be the one who doesn’t bend. But I’m learning control and leadership aren’t the same thing, and my son doesn’t need a warden. He needs a guide.

What I’m Trying Instead

I’ve been experimenting with something different lately. Instead of going full drill-sergeant, I try to pause and ask myself:

  • “What’s behind this attitude? Is he frustrated, tired, embarrassed, or just trying to feel in control of something?
  • “What’s the real issue here, and what’s the outcome I want?”

Then, instead of just laying down the law, I give him choices within the boundary. For example:

  • Instead of: “You’re done with screens for the day, because you can’t talk to me like that.”
  • I’ll try: “You can take five minutes to cool off and then play, or we can turn the game off for the night. Which do you want to do?”

He doesn’t always like the options, but giving him a say changes the energy. He’s not being forced, he’s choosing. And sometimes, now that he’s getting a little older, he’ll offer up his own choice. When that happens, I stop and really listen, so he feels heard. I ask myself if his idea still fits the boundary, and if it does, I work it in so we both win.

Child psychologists say kids push back harder when they feel powerless—it’s a survival instinct. Giving choices, even small ones, tells their brain they’re safe, and they calm down faster. I’ve seen it happen in real-time; his shoulders relax, his voice softens, and we move forward instead of spiraling into a power struggle.

The Hardest Part (For Me, Anyway)

Here’s the truth: mindful parenting isn’t about being soft or letting things slide. It’s about letting go of my need to win every moment.

And that’s tough. Because when I’m tired or stressed, “winning” feels easier than connecting. Tightening the reins feels like control, but it’s usually just me reacting instead of teaching.

I’m learning that the more curious I am, the more patient I stay, the faster the attitude melts away. It’s not perfect. Sometimes I still snap, but on the days I manage to pause, we both end up calmer.

A Work in Progress

I’m not writing this as someone who has it all figured out. I still struggle. But every time I pause instead of pounce, I feel like I’m gaining something important, his trust.

And I keep reminding myself: I don’t want my son to just follow my rules. I want him to learn how to manage his own emotions, make good choices, and trust me enough to talk when things feel hard.

That doesn’t happen when I tighten the reins too hard. It happens when I guide, listen, and sometimes let go just enough for him to grow.

The real question I’m asking myself now is: Am I trying to raise an obedient kid or an emotionally intelligent one? Because the answer changes how I parent.

Your Turn

Have you ever had this happen, where tightening the reins just made things worse? What worked (or didn’t work) for you?

Parenting isn’t about perfection, it’s about showing up, time and again, and growing right alongside our kids.

Originally published on Medium