At five years old, my mom gazed at her 1970s-era wooden TV that sat on the floor and doubled as a piece of furniture. On this monstrosity played a Sesame Street cartoon called “I Can Remember.” In the cartoon, a little girl of a similar age to my mom at the time, adorns a yellow dress and bow. As her red ballet flats clomp along the road, she recites in her head the words ‘a loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter.’ These were the three things that her mom had tasked her to buy before she was sent off on her mission to the grocery store, alone. 

To my mom, who grew up in Mississauga, a suburb in  Toronto, Ontario, this notion was enchanting — she was gobsmacked over the idea that this little girl was entrusted with this mission to obtain these essential household staples all by herself.

In early adulthood, my mom recognized the faults in parenting styles that sought to shelter children from all harm or hardship. She watched how the hapless kids raised this way lacked much of the confidence, independence, and critical thinking skills she hoped to cultivate in her son, me. 

Keeping this in mind, as well as the cartoon she used to love,  my mom created the — patent pending — “Robbie Do It” parenting style. Whenever I saw my mom working at a task — cooking a pancake, lighting a candle, or walking our dog — and she noticed me watching her, she would utter three magical words: “Robbie Do It.” 

These words put me into action mode, setting off a chain reaction of excitement and curiosity in me, which I channeled into tongue-protruding concentration. I knew that the task I would be given after those words would not always be easy, but I also knew that I would grow in a new way because of them. I looked forward to the freedom and responsibility I knew would come.

One of these tasks was pancake-making. At the ripe age of 4 years old, as I was eating a banana pancake, I thought to myself, ‘how hard could this be to make?’ So, I asked my mom if I could try to make one, and she, of course, said “Robbie Do It.” 

I then set off into action, carefully combining the Kodiak-brand pancake mix with the required water and eggs as instructions listed on the back of the box detailed, which I referred to as the “constructions” on the back of the box. After this I lit the stove, and my mom winced as I almost burned myself, but as she approached me, I uttered the words “Robbie Do It” and per the rules of “Robbie Do It,” she had to step back and let me sort it out on my own. After the ordeal was over, I triumphantly feasted on my mangled, molten, maple syrup-soaked monstrosity, and although it wasn’t the most beautiful or the most delicious, I was proud because it was all from me. Robbie had done it.

As I grew older, the tasks that my mom set me grew in difficulty. I was no longer frying flapjacks, but at 7 years old, I was lugging my own skis from the car to the ski slope, opening stubborn jars in the kitchen, and chopping vegetables. 

 Because my mom encouraged me to take on tasks and carve my own way through the world while she watched from afar and offered support when needed, I learned to trust myself and my ability to deal with adversity. This allowed me to develop a confidence that some of my peers lacked: the confidence to play the role of Daddy Warbucks in my school’s fifth-grade production of “Annie;” the confidence to go to a party, walk up to new people, and hold a long deep conversation about their views on the meaning of life; and the confidence to interview any subject for the newspaper. I feel like if presented with a task I have never done before, I can let that motivated, curious, and driven part of myself take over. 

Now in my teenage years the “Robbie Do It” has transitioned from being something that my mom said to help me learn things about the world, to something she says when she wants me to take on problems she herself doesn’t understand. Because she raised me with the “Robbie Do It” philosophy I have more confidence in my ability to solve problems than even she does. For example, when our laundry machine’s display lights it with F51 error, which it often does, my mom wouldn’t know what to do and would throw her hands up and say, ‘guess we’re not doing laundry today.’ But I knew that with any task there would be a way through because of what I had learned from all the past instances of “Robbie Do It.” So, I futzed with it for a while and found that the error could be fixed by simply grabbing the drum of the washing machine and spinning it back and forth a few times by hand.

This parenting philosophy has provided me with the confidence to know that when I leave for university, no matter what challenges I may face, I will be able to rely on the problem-solving side of myself that my mom has helped me cultivate. 

So, when one day I have children of my own, I will think back to the amazing tools the “Robbie Do It” philosophy has equipped me with, and maybe send my own kids off to the store alone to bring back a loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter.