It was late in the day of an already-trying week. I was in the playground for the afternoon pick-up, where several little ones storm the roost before their older siblings emerge from their classrooms.
I saw rather than heard a few of these teeny beings (some toddlers, others nursery age) getting into a tangle in the corner. I observed two of the mums turning exactly the moment that their own children cried out. I admired this parental precision. Once the errant toddlers had been hailed and hauled into place, I casually admitted “I could never do that. I have no idea what my son’s up to unless he confesses or someone complains.”
“Should you be a parent, then?”
I was… dumb-struck.
Sure, I’d make a terrible penguin, but in many respects, I’m still a good parent. I play footie with him. I do his homework with him. I find furtive and cunning ways of smuggling fruit and vegetables into his diet. I read with him. I create with him. I listen to him, worry with him, and strategise with him about the worries he has.
Yeah, I can’t hear him. I’d make a terrible penguin. The ability to pick out one call of distress above all others is a great and sacred thing. I agree with that on some level.
But I’m not raising a sodding penguin, am I?
comments and hugs welcome. hugs exceptionally welcome.