On being a compass
I did not sign up to being a compass.
My two daughters are on either side of the teenage cusp.
When we were pregnant with our first child, I remember devouring this How-To book titled ‘What to expect when you are expecting’. (I use the pronoun we to my wife’s constant and perennial annoyance at its usage. And if the tome of the aforementioned book were within easy reach, she would, on reading this, no doubt fling it in my general direction with intent to cause bodily harm). But at the risk of putting myself and my physical health in danger, I must insist, albeit entirely from a male point of view, that my wife’s journey through pregnancy felt very much like a shared experience, hence justifying my usage of the collective pronoun.
Through the pregnancy, every step along the way, every week, every month and trimester, I was ready. I knew what to expect. This is easy, this fatherhood thing, I would say to myself nonchalantly, reaching for my glass of wine, before flicking to the next chapter.
And then the baby was born.
I think it was Mike Tyson who said, ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.’
The baby — our first-born — arrived. And all my manuals, theories, plans, and projections were immediately and unceremoniously relegated to the bin. I should have perhaps had an inkling of best laid plans going awry, expecting the unexpected or whatever your favourite maxim might be, when, epidural notwithstanding, my beautiful, patient, and usually calm wife, turned into this desperately aggressive, expletive-hurling, arm-twisting stranger in the throes of labour.
I didn’t realise it then — but when my daughter made her grand entrance a few excruciatingly painful hours later, that was also the moment that I became a compass.
A few months ago as the conversation over the dinner table veered very unexpectedly from the benign waters of our upcoming Easter holiday plans to the choppy subject of gender nomenclature and LGBTQ+ rights, I realised how utterly naïve I was all those years ago and how out of my depth I continue to be to this date.
These unexpected twists and turns in the weather patterns of our conversations are so much of a common occurrence, that I should know better than to be surprised. From politics, to culture and religion, no topic is off the proverbial table. If the reader is led to believe that I am a graduate of the school of helicopter parenting, relentlessly foisting upon my innocent and unsuspecting children, topics for discourse requiring deep intellectual curiosity, I would beseech them to alter their judgement. Its not as if I go out of my way to encourage a topic for lively debate or discussion. I’m content at shooting the breeze and keeping things superficial and light. That said, I don’t hinder it either. And the things that surface, well, they do catch me out.
Every morning, as I hug my daughters before they head to school, it strikes me that they are about to venture out and be buffeted from all directions by the winds and undercurrents of myriad influences and experiences. I cannot wait to welcome them home in the evening, and wrap them in my protective embrace. Being a kid isn’t easy. Certainly not these days. Perhaps it never was.
Being a parent isn’t easy either. In my formative years, I remember looking up to my parents as a sounding board for my ideas, seeking validation for the choices I had to make, as a litmus paper for what is right, wrong, black, white, or grey. We had our disagreements. But ultimately, they were the lighthouse I’d glance back at as I headed out into unchartered waters and the beacon that would guide me back home.
Fast forward to the present day. The gravity of the responsibility I bear towards my daughters is not lost upon me. They return home, their minds awash with new experiences, some of which make sense to them, and others don’t. They are not as naïve as I was at their age. They realise that our world and society is a grand experiment and in a constant state of evolution. That doesn’t mean however that life isn’t and cannot be confusing.
Like when in her very first lesson at secondary school my daughter’s art teacher began by asking everyone to address her as Mx. Johnson. (Later that night: Daddy, what is a gender neutral person?)
Or when on the day after England lost in the finals of the Euros a few years ago, knowing that they come from an Italian heritage, one of the boys in class hurled a racial slur in their direction and they returned home perplexed about how best they should have responded.
Or when the debate about Brexit inevitably led to immigration and taking back control, and my daughters, born in this country, of Indian and Italian heritage but as British as Marmite and Fish and Chips, started to question what it actually means to be British.
Then there are the quotidian choices they grapple with; academic subjects, what to opt in for, what to opt out of. Extracurricular activities. Screen time and social media platforms.
And last but not the least, the small matter of navigating the murky swamp of morality, values, and behaviours.
The concept of role models is bandied about abundantly in the corporate workplace and in society at large. It begins at home. I am an average bloke. I have my shortcomings, but by and large, I would argue that my daughters have not been short-changed in having me as one of their role models.
As humans, we slip up. In our busy frenetic lives, its all too easy for us to fall short of the behavioural standards we set for ourselves. I have been guilty of that. And for every such slip up, I know it has registered and altered ever so slightly the fabric of our children’s perspectives. Can any parent out there honestly put hand on heart and say they haven’t uttered words in the heat of the moment that they wished they hadn’t? Or not let their work stresses for instance accompany them back home and negatively influence interactions with their children? Guilty on both counts. And many more.
We live in complex times when as adults, we too are subject to the same onslaught of social, cultural and political influences.
There are no right or wrong positions. And such is the evolutionary nature of many of these subjects, that the position one might hold today will likely change in the weeks and months to come.
I owe it to my daughters to be informed and to have a view. I owe them a frank and open discussion. On many a count, I do not have the right to preach as I am as much a learner as them. I owe them a keen and unbiased ear and honest feedback and perspectives.
This is not easy. After all, I am the father. I should know it all, shouldn’t I? It’s my way or the highway? I need to learn to be humble, to impart my knowledge, and add to it, by listening and learning, from them and others.
It’s a fine balancing act, being their friend and confidante, while being their compass at the same time, shepherding them ever so gently in the direction we, as their parents, believe to be the right one.
