We have a little morning ritual in our house. At about a quarter to 7 (uggh), our 5 year-old son gently pads into our bedroom, clambers into our bed, squeezes between us and hugs his mother, his back turned to me.
“Ah, snuggles,” he sighs, in the softest, sweetest kid voice you could hope to hear (no hint of the furious bellow to come half an hour or so from now, when the swine is still refusing to get dressed).
After getting his fill of mum cuddles, he finally turns, puts his arms around me in a magnanimous effort to share the love, and on a good day I might even get 20 seconds of the good stuff before he recoils with a wince and protests, “Ahh, daddy! Your breath is stinky”.
You know those awful hypotheticals? If you and all your friends were on a desert island, who would get eaten first? What do you go for – an afternoon of mini- golf with Cory Bernardi or a sedative-free colonoscopy? Those kinds of nightmare what ifs?
Well, if my kids were faced with some kind of 'Sophie’s Choice' type deal, whereby they had to decide between me or my partner kicking the bucket - humour me here, let’s say we’re trapped in a warehouse that’s about to explode, they’ve only got one wheelbarrow and the chance to push one of us to safety (I’m aware that a 7 and 5 year-old would find it impossible to push either one of us 2 metres given our weight, never mind the laughable notion that they’d be able to collaborate on such a project without descending into violent conflict) – I believe it would take them less than 10 seconds to make the call.
Mummy gets to live, every time.
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Comment: Parents playing favourites
It’s not that I’m bitter about this.
She was the one who carried them for nine months, after all, who endured the terrifying gorefests of their deliveries. Then there was the breastfeeding – that didn’t look any kind of fun at all once the teeth started coming through. Mastitis didn’t seem a picnic, either.
And when they’ve jammed their fingers in doors, scraped their knees during extreme scooter rallies or been feverish with one of those pesky childhood maladies, how much better than me their mother has been at soothing them. While she automatically finds the perfect vocal pitch of consolation and reassurance, with just the right hug calibre, I have a tendency to freeze in such moments, to stand transfixed at the sight of the bloody, dangling fingernail, to yell out “I told you this driveway is too steep, didn't I?”, compounding their terror and dismay, to panic at the foot of the sickbed, wondering out loud if we should call the hospital, or an exorcist.
Let’s face it, in the grand scheme of things, for a lot of kids out there (mine, without question, no doubt, most definitely), a dad is more dispensable than a mum.
I get it. That’s okay.
Which is why I have no beef with Father’s Day being Mother’s Day’s B-side, its inferior remake, its charisma-free sidekick.
It’s true, I’ve made my sacrifices, too. Curvature of the spine from carrying excited urchins on my shoulders. An expanding waistline from having family leftovers habitually shovelled onto my plate. A general softening all round in fact. Music unlistened to, books unread, even the minor, simple pleasure of a leisurely bowel movement routinely interrupted by one child or the other bursting through the door to wave their latest drawing in my face (“Yes, it’s lovely.” “Ahh, daddy, you stink.”)
But, hey, I’m not one to complain.
The truth is, notwithstanding the daily abuse and belittlements, and the incremental emasculation that it heralds, fatherhood is (whisper it) a sweeter gig than I ever imagined, with or without Sunday’s recognition.
This unconditional love stuff – the kind we feel for our kids – it’s a heady drug and reward enough in itself.
Still, yay Father’s Day, because there’s always room for a new pair of socks, and breakfast in bed never hurts.
Which reminds me – if it ever comes down to who gets eaten first on a desert island, at least I can be sure it’s their mother going in the pot, given her tenderness and fragrance.
Win. Hypothetical win, but I’ll take it just the same.
Ian Rose is a Melbourne-based writer.
