She has a dozen tales to tell, every evening, as she comes back from school. I pretend to listen, while typing away at the laptop. The narrative goes on for hours unless stopped by a question. She often takes me by surprise and makes me fumble for answers. “You weren’t listening all this while!”, she would complain, rolling her big, inquisitive eyes. “I was, I just got distracted this second”, I would quickly correct her. It is important for me to not disappoint her. It may be just another year or two, when these sweet interactions would stop. She may realize sooner than later that, sharing everything with a parent is not all that cool and may withdraw into her private space. A space where classmates and friends shine like diamonds and parents are lackluster.
She points to me, whenever someone asks her who her best friend in life is. I swell with pride and rise an inch above the ground. It is hard to imagine a day when I would lose the best friend title, or even worse, membership in the friends league. Sometimes, I wonder if I am faking it all, just to be in her good books. I blow up every small thing that I do in her favor, in a bid to get brownie points. I discuss my worries with her and garner sympathy votes. I have impressed upon her that, I am the best parent that exists in the cosmos, despite not being anywhere close to the definition of a perfect parent. The truth is, I am probably the greatest hypocrite that ever existed on earth.
I am an old schooler who takes it for granted that, kids by default, will heed the parents’ words and carry out their instructions at will. Though I value her opinions and ideas, I don’t hesitate to override them, when they deviate from the defined sense of decorum instilled in the house. I never shy away from disciplining her. I do help her with homework, but only when I do not have assignments on my own. I lend her an ear only when I am in an exceptionally sunny mood, not minding long rigmaroles. I seldom shower her with goodies. I give her a piece of my mind more often than a piece of cupcake. I say “No” more often than a cheerful “Yes”. And yet, she loves me. Unconditionally. With all her heart.
I insist that she reads all my blog posts, even when I sense she has far more interesting things lined up. She exhibits heightened enthusiasm while scrolling through my blog. She offers compliments and suggestions, quite voluntarily. I cherish them. She encourages me to step out of my shell and build a social circle. She prods me to take up leadership initiatives at work and outside of it. “You can do it! Just believe in yourself!”, she would say every time I smiled sheepishly. She looks up to me as a friend, philosopher and guide. But, I know deep inside that, I need her more than she needs me. She has shaped me far better than I have moulded her. I may not accept this in her presence, but this is the holy truth. I cannot help agree that, the child is the father of the man!
