Two vs Twenty-Two, and a Tale of Parenting Scorecards
Am I doing enough as a father? It is a question I ask deeply, and get mixed results.
Okay, so this probably wouldn’t have been on my list of things to jot down, especially when my phone’s feed constantly chimes with the juiciest political and technological topics to opine on, but here we are.
A short while ago, in a galaxy called the Milky Way, one inhabitant of planet Earth, swinging around a star called the Sun, jabbed at her husband:
“2 vs 22. That’s how many times you’ve fed her.”
The husband found himself at a loss for words . . .
Was he not there for his daughter when no one at home was ready to play with her?
Was he not there to pass spoonful of morsels when she looked at him with doleful eyes?
Was he not there to comfort her in his arms when she got exhausted from all the tickling?
Was he not there to lift her up to the high heavens (ceiling), making her cackle and laugh the most beautiful laugh?
Was he not there to . . .
All right, all right. You get the gist. I might also have flourished this a bit to mask the one fatherhood duty I underperformed in. The very same for which my wife has kept a score. But I, too, have apprenticed under the damning reports of India’s politicians. I think I just might be ready for a post-doctorate in obfuscating reality.
Truth? It’s Probably in the Details
Back when I made a post on my dear daughter’s Schrödinger’s Poop, I ended with a score that might have sparked something in my wife’s imagination. And while she’s very supportive with her oddly imbalanced score of me only feeding our daughter two times, it might probably not be too far away from the truth.
(Psst, if you didn’t get what “Schrödinger’s Poop” refers to, here’s the previous post for your perusal)
The truth, however, is not always pretty, is it? I guess this is why I felt attacked.
Now, I could reason a million arguments to wash me in somewhat better light, but I know those will be nothing but petty excuses. Except for the times when I was terribly tired and just slept through lunchtime. That, I tell you, cannot go on any scoreboard whatsoever. I wasn’t playing the game, was I?
Fatherhood is amazing in these aspects. One day, you pick a ball that you know how to throw, but your arm wriggles funny, your hips pivot instead of swaying, your eyelids can’t support the melatonin buildup, and you crumple on the most comfortable mattress in the most blissful sleep.
At least I get to sleep. I know my wife doesn’t. Not the same way I do. Even though I’m a light sleeper (and a lazy arse, but don’t tell her I said that), she has to pull more strings to get things done in and around the house. Let’s not even add the office work to this list, through the waters of which she’s tugging the boat of motherhood and star employee with grace, poise, and patience.
But my shoulders hurt, and I can’t help but cry. Nobody’s going to bat an eyelid in my direction if I do whine. I’m the father that gives, the father that shelters, the father that forms a layer of protection even when his daughter is being fed by her grandparents while he decides the rim styles of his Lamborghini Gallardo LP 570-4 Superleggera in Forza Horizon 5.
Priorities that sieve through thin veils of life, am I right?
The Scores So Far
If she thought I was going to let it go right there and then . . . well. Let’s tally some wild scores, shall we?
Am I failing? That’s up for debate. Ask anyone, and they’ll say I am doing great as a father. What baffles me is that when it comes to how my wife is doing as a mother, statistics even wilder than those above are pulled from the eighth planet of the solar system and shoved as proof of her achievement.
Who am I to judge, though? I’m on the same pedestal and we’re competing.
For society? Dear gods, no.
For make-believe points? Erm, probably.
For our daughter’s attention? Oh, absolutely and unequivocally yes.
Perhaps it’s not just I who pulls the nastiest tricks from the disregarded sleeves of our politicians. Making numbers up is, dare I say, the quintessential Indian competitive mindset. Fatherhood is always portrayed a shade lighter than motherhood, or at least that’s what people make us think. The reality just might be darker. But that’s because someone forgot to change the lightbulb here. Oh, wait, was I supposed to do that?
Now excuse me as I set the score straight and feed our daughter some morsels to up my score.
