In Defense of the Doormat Dad If Benjamin, my 2-year-old, has a meltdown because we're leaving a park, I let him stay longer. If he wants to jump on our kiddie trampoline until 11 p.m. instead of going to bed, I indulge him. If he insists on taking a 60-minute bath, I sit there beside the tub. Recently I was driving Benjamin home and he started pointing adamantly from his car seat in a direction, insisting I go that way. I decided to play along. Then he wanted me to make another turn. And get on the highway. When we finally returned to the apartment, my wife excoriated me. You're insane, she said, you're following a 2-year-old. I argued: I think he's starting to recognize streets. It's not like we had to be anywhere. "Yes Daddy" strikes again. I do say no to him (when he crawls into our stove) and I restrain him when he flails his arms at me in frustration, but mostly I try to avoid conflict. For example, Jen thought we should remove him from his bath after 30 minutes even if it meant every bath ended in a tantrum. But I noticed that if I let him stay in the water as long as he wanted, he would get out on his own after about 40 minutes. Bath time would be pleasant for all parties. I prefer my way. Yet I must confess that I'm afraid of Benjamin's anger. When he really wants something and doesn't get it, a powerful force rises up from him and I feel like a TV reporter getting blown about at the scene of a hurricane. I sometimes wish I could just give in all the time and ride his changing desires and have him be forever happy and contented. But (alas) I can't outlaw red traffic lights or lines at stores, or make it safe for him to run off without holding my hand. The ponytailed pediatrician with Disney pins on his suspenders frowned when Jen complained about my parenting style during Benjamin's well visit. He's so afraid of his crying, she said, that he lets him do whatever he wants. Exaggeration, I said. Where do you think this came from? the doctor asked me. May I ask what your father was like? My dad could be brusque, impatient and aloof, and he took everything personally. If I didn't listen, I wasn't listening to him. If I refused to eat something, I was refusing him. He first spanked me at the age of 2. He came home from work one day while I was playing with a toy, and he said "come here" and I ignored him. I worried, as Benjamin's second birthday approached, that I would suddenly start hitting him. I feared the urge to spank him would sneak up on me and explode. A week after his birthday, Jen referred to me as "doormat daddy." I took it as a compliment. Discipline, to me, feels dangerous. Minor disputes about food and bedtime could morph into epic power struggles. I understand that even in the best father and son relations, conflict is present, but I'm hoping to cushion our relationship with an abundance of patience and unconditional love before the first shots are fired. I'm not going to let Benjamin be rude to your kids, or wreck your house. And if he wrecks my place a bit and has a little more agency than the average 2-year-old, it's not going to doom him to a life of misbehavior. He's a sweet, curious and willful kid, and I'm happy to let him find his way without too much fatherly interference. On Father's Day this year, Jen presented me with a card adorned with Benjamin's smiling likeness. Inside the card, she wrote that I was a terrific father and how much she appreciated all that I did. Even though I'm a "doormat daddy?" She paused as if I had raised a novel point. You're a great father, she conceded.