That other dad is not your report card.

There is always going to be a dad with a better treehouse.

Maybe his has windows. Maybe it has electricity. Maybe he built it over a weekend while you were still trying to locate the Phillips-head screwdriver that somebody apparently needed for reasons they can no longer explain.

Good for him. Seriously. A treehouse with electricity sounds cool as hell.

The problem starts when his Saturday project becomes evidence in the case against your entire existence.

That’s a lot to ask of a treehouse

Comparison is one of the things I keep returning to while writing You Suck at Being a Dad. I have four daughters, and I don’t need much help inventing ways I could be doing a better job. Give my brain somebody else’s impressive afternoon and it can turn that into a comprehensive performance review.

Look at what he did. Why didn’t you think of that? Why don’t you have the time? The money? The tools? The apparently limitless desire to purchase lumber?

It’s amazing how quickly admiration can turn into an accusation. One minute you’re looking at something neat. The next, you’re disappointed in yourself for failing an assignment nobody gave you.

And the comparison doesn’t even stay consistent. We’ll borrow one guy’s patience, another guy’s salary, somebody else’s vacation, and a fourth guy’s abs. Then we’ll stand this imaginary superhero next to ourselves and wonder why we feel inadequate.

Buddy. You assembled him from parts.

There might be something worth learning

I don’t want to dismiss every uncomfortable comparison. Sometimes another parent does something I admire, and paying attention could make me a better dad.

Maybe he listens without interrupting. Maybe he’s good at including his kid in something he enjoys. Maybe he finds a way to stay calm in a moment where I’d be ready to climb into the nearest air-conditioning vent and live there.

I can notice that. I can ask how he does it. I can try something different.

That gets harder when I’m busy resenting him for making me feel bad. Especially when he hasn’t actually done anything to me. He was just over there, being a person, and I recruited him into an argument happening entirely inside my head.

Get specific about what you envy

When something gets under my skin, I want to slow down long enough to name it.

Do I want the treehouse, or do I want the time he seems to have? Am I bothered by the trip, or worried that my kids are missing out? Do I admire his relationship with his child? Is there a small part of that I could practice in my own house?

Those questions have somewhere to go. “He’s a better dad than me” mostly just sits there, being heavy.

There may be a real frustration underneath the envy. Money can be tight. Time can be scarce. Being honest about those limits is a lot more useful than deciding they’re proof I don’t love my kids enough.

Come back to the people who know you

My daughters aren’t being raised by the collection of impressive men on my screen. They’re being raised by me.

That means my attention needs to come back to our actual relationship. What have they been trying to tell me? Where have I followed through? Where do I owe them something? What would make today a little better between us?

I can learn from another dad without turning him into my replacement.

And if I ever do build a treehouse, I would like it to be because we want a treehouse. The girls shouldn’t have to spend their afternoon inside a monument to my insecurity.