I was at the park this afternoon, you know, the one with the splash pad that’s always packed even when it’s 60 degrees out because, *kids*. And I’m there, pushing Leo on the swing, trying to make small talk with another dad about, like, the merits of organic fruit snacks vs. the regular kind (lol), and my eyes just drift. Like a magnet, you know? And I’m looking at all these other toddlers, these little bipedal super-achievers, and I swear every single one of them is, like, fluent in Mandarin and already doing calculus. And Leo, my sweet little dude, is still mostly in grunts and pointing, which is fine! Totally fine. But then I see this kid, maybe a month older than Leo, already *running* across the grass, not that wobbly, drunken toddler shuffle, but like, full-on Usain Bolt. And I just think, *damn it*, is it something I’m doing? Or not doing? Am I not reading enough flashcards? Is his diet too much mac and cheese and not enough... sea moss? I feel this weird pang, like a dull ache behind my ribs, and it's not even a big deal, but it is, you know? And then, because my brain is a cruel mistress, I start noticing the clothes. Because of course I do. Leo’s in this kinda faded onesie, definitely a hand-me-down from his cousin, bless her heart for thinking of us, but you can see the faint outline where a cartoon character used to be vibrant. And all these other kids, they’re in like, *designer* toddler wear. Little linen overalls, tiny bespoke sneakers. Like they’re heading to a miniature fashion show instead of getting muddy in a sandbox. And I’m thinking, okay, this is insane. This is peak bougie parenting right here. But then a part of me, the part that's definitely not as cool as I pretend to be, is like, "Well, *he* looks put-together, maybe *his* kid is also speaking in full sentences." And I hate that thought. I actually HATE it. But it was there, just buzzing around like a really annoying mosquito. I just sat there, pushing Leo higher and higher, trying to distract myself with his delighted giggles, but my mind was still on overdrive, a silent monologue of self-recrimination and judgment. Not just for other people, but for myself. For even thinking about it. For feeling like I’m constantly falling short, even in the most mundane, silly ways. Like, what kind of grown man gets all existential over a baby’s vocabulary and a faded onesie? This one, apparently. The sun was getting low, casting long shadows, and all I wanted was to just pack us up and go home, maybe order some ridiculously unhealthy takeout and just… not think about any of it until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or maybe never. But I know it'll be back, the little voice, next time we’re at the park. Or the grocery store. Or literally anywhere there are other kids and their parents. It never really goes away.