14th May 2012
From Mother Nature to Mother Goddess, we celebrate motherhood, as it should be. There is none so universal an icon of love and care as is the mother. From rodents to reptiles, from primates to a plumage rich avian, it is the mother of every species which carries the burden of parenthood. We wonder, admire and wax eloquent at this highest form of self-effacing love. There are more works on motherhood in fields of literature and visual arts than one can enumerate. Celluloid worldwide has captured more moving images of the mother-offspring bonding than movie critics could count. Finally, we all know our own mothers and love her, so there is no argument there.
It gets a little uneasy when we consider the paternal side to parenting. We tread with trepidation here in this most grey zone. Most fathers in the animal kingdom shirk the duties of fatherhood, and the human world is replete with inhuman instances of wayward dads. All this is frightening, and a lame premise to even attempt a treatise on the weaker parent.
But attempt we must, or the unsung fathers, millions of them from the beginning of creation, would never sleep in their graves. Fathers do play a part in bringing up a child, at least most of them do. So why not talk about it a little? After all, as said in the movie Honey I Blew up the Kid, “Fathers are fun. But mothers mean business.” Why not talk about the fun thing?
A little girl was born to a mother who was under sedation after her C-section for two days. The newborn girl was handed over to a totally nervous father who had not held an infant ever. The hospital nurses were of very little help. The dad held the delicate newborn in the crook of his arm, as the pediatrician showed, and walked around the small patient chamber, looking pleadingly at his still sedated wife. But she couldn’t help in her dazed sleep, inundated in wires of medical origin. He was afraid to sit on the sofa lest the child starts crying. He noticed constant and rhythmic movement kept the child happy. After two hours, he started humming a song to himself to dent the deafening silence in the room. The child seemed happy at the song. Her head was nestled next to where the dad’s heart is, and she dozed off contentedly to the steady tick tack of her father’s heart. For two days at a stretch, this “mothering” activity by the father continued, from feeding milk from a bottle to changing of nappies to helping her to break wind. The father learnt quickly as he did things for the first time. This was an “on the job training” if there ever was one. The recurrent song, a particularly melodious Rabindrasangeet, by then was a leit-motif to her first two days at life.
The girl child started her pre-school. They were now away from their home city, without a backup of relatives. At the same time, her mother took up a job to share the added expenses. It was a marketing job all six days a week, without a work from home option. They tried a crèche after school. The child could not adjust. The crèche expressed helplessness as she threw tantrums. He had an IT job, so he took the work from home option four days a week to take care of her when she came back from school. One day in the week she went grudgingly to crèche after school. Saturday was fun day for the little girl, because dad and daughter played at the park all evening. They ate out and played word games at home. There were story sessions and they religiously picked her mother from work at 8 pm.
In those weeks of mothering a little girl, the dad learnt to admire all mothers better than all literature or movies could teach him. The immediacy of caring for a little one, of carrying out vital functions like cooking, feeding, ablutions were greater teachers than “Do It Yourself” books. The ivory tower of traditional fatherhood, of being the provider and the occasional teacher, was shattered. In a fortunate reversal of roles, a father was learning to be a mother, and how! Only fathers know how difficult and alien it is to play mom to your children. Moms are born to multi-task. Dads aren’t. When your boss pings you, your girl is pleading for a bedtime story before she settles in to siesta. Off course the dad messed up more ways than one. Surely there were SOS calls to the mom for advice, step by excruciating step of basic child care had to be narrated to him. Many a times the daughter wailed “I wish mother was here instead of you!” This crushed the dad, but he became more resolute to succeed. Fathers, by definition, don’t make good mothers. But the spectre of an alien crèche made the dad-daughter duo try harder at their bonding, and slowly it all fell in place. When her vacation came around, he would take her to work, and she would sit next to him in a workstation and sketch pictures from her dad’s bedtime stories. On the drive back home, she would sleep nestled on his chest, as was her wont.
SOS calls stopped. The mom was confident that her hubby doesn’t need help. The last pinnacle of stereotypes was being busted. The dad started googling recipes meant for children. On weekends, he would turn out dishes the daughter relished. Cooking was a new medium, but he learnt quickly. The daughter’s appreciation was the incentive that goaded him on.
Eight years have elapsed since that day, and the little big girl can’t go to sleep unless her head is rested against her dad’s left chest, listening to the steady tick tack of her dad’s heartbeat. He has to sing the same Rabindrasangeet as a lullaby. She bathes with her dad, and her special breakfasts have to be cooked up by him.
As his daughter grew, he learnt to see the world as a small girl would. The rough and tumble games of his own childhood got replaced by playing mother to dolls. He became a “keeper of secrets” for the girl. Two of them went shopping for her wardrobe replenishment. He learnt to explore, discover and then express the feminine side of his personality. A product of strict catholic all boys’ hostel, the learning curve was playing truant for the father. But he tried manfully to express the woman in him.
And he is trying. Still. Brownie points for fathers who try, shall we? Shall we remember the unsung fathers, a day after Mother’s Day?
Mothers are the champions who are among these speeding thousands and they rest not. Fathers also serve in their own quite way, shirking the limelight and facilitating the mothers. Let us remember their contribution in our lives. Please?
A Quiet Word in for the Fathers
You will find that if you really try to be a father, your child will meet you halfway. ~Robert Brault
Prologue:
From Mother Nature to Mother Goddess, we celebrate motherhood, as it should be. There is none so universal an icon of love and care as is the mother. From rodents to reptiles, from primates to a plumage rich avian, it is the mother of every species which carries the burden of parenthood. We wonder, admire and wax eloquent at this highest form of self-effacing love. There are more works on motherhood in fields of literature and visual arts than one can enumerate. Celluloid worldwide has captured more moving images of the mother-offspring bonding than movie critics could count. Finally, we all know our own mothers and love her, so there is no argument there.
It gets a little uneasy when we consider the paternal side to parenting. We tread with trepidation here in this most grey zone. Most fathers in the animal kingdom shirk the duties of fatherhood, and the human world is replete with inhuman instances of wayward dads. All this is frightening, and a lame premise to even attempt a treatise on the weaker parent.
But attempt we must, or the unsung fathers, millions of them from the beginning of creation, would never sleep in their graves. Fathers do play a part in bringing up a child, at least most of them do. So why not talk about it a little? After all, as said in the movie Honey I Blew up the Kid, “Fathers are fun. But mothers mean business.” Why not talk about the fun thing?
"It is much easier to become a father than to be one." -- Kent Nerburn
Act 1, Scene 1: [A hospital room. A female patient sleeps. A hapless gent is holding a newborn as if it is a brittle toy]
A little girl was born to a mother who was under sedation after her C-section for two days. The newborn girl was handed over to a totally nervous father who had not held an infant ever. The hospital nurses were of very little help. The dad held the delicate newborn in the crook of his arm, as the pediatrician showed, and walked around the small patient chamber, looking pleadingly at his still sedated wife. But she couldn’t help in her dazed sleep, inundated in wires of medical origin. He was afraid to sit on the sofa lest the child starts crying. He noticed constant and rhythmic movement kept the child happy. After two hours, he started humming a song to himself to dent the deafening silence in the room. The child seemed happy at the song. Her head was nestled next to where the dad’s heart is, and she dozed off contentedly to the steady tick tack of her father’s heart. For two days at a stretch, this “mothering” activity by the father continued, from feeding milk from a bottle to changing of nappies to helping her to break wind. The father learnt quickly as he did things for the first time. This was an “on the job training” if there ever was one. The recurrent song, a particularly melodious Rabindrasangeet, by then was a leit-motif to her first two days at life.
Fathers, like mothers, are not born. Men grow into fathers and fathering is a very important stage in their development.
-- David Gottesman
Act 1, Scene 2: [Three years later. An apartment. The same gent, now a bit older, is running around after a child, pleading her to finish her meal. The child is the infant from Scene 1, now grown.]
The girl child started her pre-school. They were now away from their home city, without a backup of relatives. At the same time, her mother took up a job to share the added expenses. It was a marketing job all six days a week, without a work from home option. They tried a crèche after school. The child could not adjust. The crèche expressed helplessness as she threw tantrums. He had an IT job, so he took the work from home option four days a week to take care of her when she came back from school. One day in the week she went grudgingly to crèche after school. Saturday was fun day for the little girl, because dad and daughter played at the park all evening. They ate out and played word games at home. There were story sessions and they religiously picked her mother from work at 8 pm.
In those weeks of mothering a little girl, the dad learnt to admire all mothers better than all literature or movies could teach him. The immediacy of caring for a little one, of carrying out vital functions like cooking, feeding, ablutions were greater teachers than “Do It Yourself” books. The ivory tower of traditional fatherhood, of being the provider and the occasional teacher, was shattered. In a fortunate reversal of roles, a father was learning to be a mother, and how! Only fathers know how difficult and alien it is to play mom to your children. Moms are born to multi-task. Dads aren’t. When your boss pings you, your girl is pleading for a bedtime story before she settles in to siesta. Off course the dad messed up more ways than one. Surely there were SOS calls to the mom for advice, step by excruciating step of basic child care had to be narrated to him. Many a times the daughter wailed “I wish mother was here instead of you!” This crushed the dad, but he became more resolute to succeed. Fathers, by definition, don’t make good mothers. But the spectre of an alien crèche made the dad-daughter duo try harder at their bonding, and slowly it all fell in place. When her vacation came around, he would take her to work, and she would sit next to him in a workstation and sketch pictures from her dad’s bedtime stories. On the drive back home, she would sleep nestled on his chest, as was her wont.
SOS calls stopped. The mom was confident that her hubby doesn’t need help. The last pinnacle of stereotypes was being busted. The dad started googling recipes meant for children. On weekends, he would turn out dishes the daughter relished. Cooking was a new medium, but he learnt quickly. The daughter’s appreciation was the incentive that goaded him on.
"It is admirable for a man to take his son fishing, but there is a special place in heaven for the father who takes his daughter shopping." -- John Sinor
Act 1, Scene 3: [Eight years after scene 1. An apartment. The same gent, now considerably older, is playing with dolls, under scrutiny of a rather strict eight year old girl. The girl is the infant from Scene 1, now grown into a little lady.]
Eight years have elapsed since that day, and the little big girl can’t go to sleep unless her head is rested against her dad’s left chest, listening to the steady tick tack of her dad’s heartbeat. He has to sing the same Rabindrasangeet as a lullaby. She bathes with her dad, and her special breakfasts have to be cooked up by him.
As his daughter grew, he learnt to see the world as a small girl would. The rough and tumble games of his own childhood got replaced by playing mother to dolls. He became a “keeper of secrets” for the girl. Two of them went shopping for her wardrobe replenishment. He learnt to explore, discover and then express the feminine side of his personality. A product of strict catholic all boys’ hostel, the learning curve was playing truant for the father. But he tried manfully to express the woman in him.
There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~John Gregory Brown
Act 1, Scene 4: [Eight years after scene 1. An apartment. The same gent, now considerably older, is clapping appreciatively as the little lady hands over a greetings card and chocolates to a lady. The little girl is the infant from Scene 1, now grown into a little lady. The lady is the patient from Scene 1. The greetings card says, “Happy Mother’s Day”.]
And he is trying. Still. Brownie points for fathers who try, shall we? Shall we remember the unsung fathers, a day after Mother’s Day?
“thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.” - John Milton
Epilogue:
Mothers are the champions who are among these speeding thousands and they rest not. Fathers also serve in their own quite way, shirking the limelight and facilitating the mothers. Let us remember their contribution in our lives. Please?
