My mother made a grand total of two trips to the school I studied in between the sixth and twelfth grade. She came once to secure admission and then she came once more to yell at my Physics teacher who expected me to write three months worth of class notes in one weekend. After that, much to the relief of the Physics teacher, my mother never set foot in school again.
I, on the other hand, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time at my children’s school. On average, I am invited to attend the following events every term: one special assembly, one publishing event, one sports related event, one parent-teacher meeting and one celebration of my child’s learning. And this is just for one child. If you have two — well, you do the math.
Today, my six-year-old is reading the sports news, narrating a skit and dancing at the weekly assembly along with his classmates. I have been invited to come and ‘extend my support’. I don’t want to extend my support because it means sitting in three hours of traffic to witness a 15-minute assembly. I ask you, does this seem like an appropriate and fair exchange? It does not. And yet, when I conveyed this sentiment to my child I was accused of not loving him and never attending anything ever. There was so much trembling of the lower lip and almost shedding of unshed tears, you would think I had suggested that we make winter coats with puppy fur.
I tried to remind my son of all the things I had come for: the grandparent’s day, the family day, the plant-a-sapling that already looks dead day. But no, these visits have been forgotten.
As parents we want to be supportive of our children’s efforts. Plus, one day, I fully expect to be number one on the list of people they thank when accepting that Nobel or Booker. I mean, technically I should be the ONLY person they’re thanking but I’m not petty like that and am fully willing to share some of the limelight with the other parent. I mean of the two of us, I am the only one who attends poetry publishing events where I have to read ten poems about pencils, summertime, and pizza. None of which rhyme and not in an ironic, post-modern way either.
Last weekend, as I sat outside my son’s classroom, waiting for another event to begin, I saw that the children had all put up Valentine’s Day letters. My son said “Thank you to my parents for everything. Thank you so, so, so, so much for everything. Thank you appa for teaching me to cycle and amma for food.”
Food? That’s what I am getting thanked for? FOOD? I don’t even cook! How about thank you amma for sitting in three hours worth of traffic to come and read my non-rhyming poetry? Is this what I am going to get thanked for at an international award ceremony 20 years down the line? FOOD?
I’m thinking of inviting my children to attend some of my important work-related events. Dear children, you are cordially invited to attend a three-hour team update meeting next week. Please come as a sign of your love and devotion.
Menaka Raman
Twitter@menakaraman
The writer’s philosophy is: if there’s no blood, don’t call me