Father’s Day has come and gone, and I am glad. It was painless, humourless, and it rained all day. There was no drama. And that’s the best way. Like children, some fathers would like to hold their breath till the whole thing blows over.
I belong to the generation where fathers were not superheroes to their children. At no point did my son say, his voice choking, “Dad, you are my hero. Just like Superman.” He might have said, “Dad you are my favourite dinosaur” at a time when dinosaurs were his heroes, but I don’t remember.
We are the butt of jokes, and Father’s Day is an occasion for recalling when a father took the wrong turn and ended up at the wrong school while dropping their children, or chased a dog till he tripped and fell. “You remember when…” begin the reminiscences and you wonder idly why you let your children grow up. Children’s Day was once celebrated in the house with great fanfare; children had their future ahead of them which made them different from fathers whose futures seemed to be behind them.
