Failing Better

A few years ago, after writing a memoir about my family, specifically my son’s autism diagnosis, I was grateful to receive the occasional email or Facebook message commending me on being a good father. Grateful but also surprised. I secretly wondered: what book were they reading?

After all, my portrait of myself was of a man overwhelmed by self-pity—more frustrating than frustrated. Of course, writing honestly about coping with autism and the strain it puts on a marriage and on family life was kind of the point for the book. “Once you are finished writing a memoir,” I remember reading somewhere, “you should be able to sue yourself for libel.” I was sure I had accomplished that much at least.

But instead of being chastened for my mistakes, I was congratulated for not screwing things up worse. Fathers, even those of us more inclined than ever to do our fair share of child care, enjoy a luxury mothers likely never will. We are graded on a curve. Writing about...