Your daughter's personal icon is a drug-addled hedomaniac who produces music about the textural quality of her blast-hole precisely because you did not read Hesiod to her when she was a toddler. A vast number of her peer group is powered by amphetamines, SSRIs, and casual sex. She also doesn't know how to cook or sew. The consequences of your apathy will ring for generations. Far longer than anything else you've managed to actualize. So, really, props!