This post has been stewing in my head for awhile (I’m weird like that) and I never wrote it out because I wasn’t sure that I made sense but I guess I won’t know until I pen it down.
In the context of fatherhood, it’s so easy to be a man.
If there’s a day I leave work on time and get home while it’s still sunny to bring my daughter to the playground, suddenly I’m father of the year. My colleague finds out and is amazed because no matter how much she asks her husband, he has not taken out their child once to the playground.
If someone finds out that I like to read my daughter storybooks, they are astonished and ask how I get her to sit still, what books are appropriate for such a young age and how I find the patience to do it after a long day of work. Honestly, if I make the story interesting and animated, she would love to sit on my lap every single day to listen to more stories.
If a friend hears that I regularly take my daughter on one-on-one dates, she can’t understand how because many fathers she knows have never dared to take care of their children alone, let alone taken them out to the mall. But these dates are truly some of the favourite moments in my life.
It’s too easy for a man to get the credit. I’m not a good father. I’m not a great father. I’m just being a father to my children, but in the society today, simply being present as a father seems to qualify me for some award.
It doesn’t even feel like a chore. I love spending time with Nat. Someone’s already done the hard work to allow me to then spend quality time with her. On working days, someone’s already worked out her sleeping and feeding routine, someone’s already kept her clean and in a good mood. Then I swoop in after work, take her out to a bookstore, buy her a present, then stop by McDs to share an ice cream cone.
And guess who gets all the recognition, all the praise and all the acknowledgement? Me. The father. The one who didn’t have to do any work, who didn’t have to expend much energy, but who took the child out for maybe two hours of fun. And guess what the child remembers about that day? That daddy came home to her. That he bought her an interesting book to read with lots of pictures and moving bits. That he sneaked her some ice cream even though mommy doesn’t encourage it.
That he cared.
That he found her worthy enough to spend time with her.
That there’s no place else he would have rather been.
This doesn’t make an awesome father. This just makes a father.
Something is seriously broken about the current expectation of how fathers should be.
Not for a moment do I believe that fathers love their kids any less than mothers. But I’ve seen so many men commended for spending every last ounce of their energy and time on building their career and finances at the cost of hardly seeing their children, and I can’t imagine anyone commending a woman if she were to do the same thing.
I’m going to go out on a limb here. Dads who don’t spend time with their kids are missing out on one of the most fulfilling and joyful experiences life can offer.
And cultural norms have already made it easier. It’s like getting a pat on the back every time you drive on the right side of the road or queue up properly at the grocery counter.
You’ll get a medal for doing what you probably should be doing anyway.
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