My son is slightly poorly, which is never fun. What’s worse is that as a 16-month-old, his goldfish memory means he’s trapped in a neverending state of discovering he’s ill, so that roughly every few minutes he’ll give a rasping cough and remember all over again he doesn’t feel great. It’s sad, but it does have one practical benefit – a sudden outpouring of affection for me that’s quite a welcome change of pace.
I’ve previously described myself as being the Andrew Ridgeley of his parents – famous, yes, but also oddly anonymous given I spend more time with him than any other adult. Oh, I get affectionate play and loads of laughter, but very little of that full-strength adoration my wife gets. When he’s poorly, I get great big sympathy-generating hugs, but ordinarily I get the kind where he just collapses on to me without much in the way of emotional intent, and he can pull away at any point. It’s the toddler equivalent of those two-hand handshakes politicians do.
It was easier in the past, when the only things he showered with love were inanimate; cuddles for Tud his panda and kisses for Upsy Daisy. Not to mention the cult-like devotion held for Pingie, the plastic penguin of whom we no longer speak, since his voice chip malfunctioned and his every utterance became a screech and we had to put him out with the bins.
But now he’s started hugging his cousins, petting friends’ dogs, even kissing his mum quite tenderly on the cheek. In fairness, these kisses involve him clamping his open mouth to her cheek like a limpet, but the tenderness is implied.
I don’t want to debate the relative strength of maternal or paternal bonds. For one thing, a lot of that conversation seems based on unhelpful stereotypes about ‘innate’ feminine qualities, etc. It’s also a blanket invitation for certain Men’s Rights types to storm my mentions with tales of dads – occasionally of the cape-clad, crane-climbing variety – so greatly beloved by their child, it’s a wonder Mother’s Day is even still a thing.
In our case, however, my wife is still the sun. I’m more like a fondly admired cloud. My presence is like when you get on the bus and see another bus driver sitting beside the main driver. It’s not that he’s unhappy to see me, just slightly confused as to why I’m there if she is.
All of which leaves me waiting for my son’s affections to be apportioned my way, with that same hopeful, pathetic expectation that fills Gary Barlow as he checks the Queen’s honours list each year. My wife sees this and, like Gary Barlow’s butler flipping the paper to the sports page, reassures me it doesn’t mean anything. For now, I’ll bide my time. Best not to make too much noise about it, unless I want to be the next beloved object sent out with the bins.
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