Fatherhood

  

The Women's Hour on Radio 4 was running a series about absent fathers. After I’d caught a bit of it on air, I thought it was an interesting coincidence. In recent weeks, I’ve been thinking about Dad a bit. And I am watching my husband father, too.

As a mum, I am always there. Nobody questions it. Fathers are different in a way, even though the expectations should be the same.

This year, I have visited my birthplace after a few years. Part of the tradition is a visit to the cemetery and a stop by the little window that houses the urn with my dad’s ashes. It is the place of his final rest and a reminder that he is no longer alive.

My family wasn’t special; we were average in many ways. Mum, Dad, two daughters - parents with jobs average for their area, a quiet family, well-behaved children. It didn’t occur to me how rare that actually was and still is, to have two functioning adults who looked after us, took care of us, and wanted us to have a good start in life. Our family was around, some near, some further away, but we were part of them. I grew up surrounded by people and their history. Life might have been boring at times, but it was steady, stable, and safe.

A friend across the road grew up in a house where various boyfriends came and went; some wanted to be part of the existing family unit, some didn’t really care about the boys in the flat. My friend’s mum wanted to have a relationship, but she also wanted to give her sons everything, including a father-figure. She was trying very hard to make it work. I didn’t see it as wrong or bad; it was just a different kind of family. Only later did I think that there were actually many blended or one-parent families around me and I believer they are now increasing.

Another boy in my class once remarked how lucky my sister and I were. Our dad was always around; he did things with us, took us places. We participated in everything that was going on in our little town – all special events, or the regular ones, or sporting events because they interested Dad. He took us on little trips. Dad wanted to spend time with us; he wanted to do things together. I thought it was normal. Only after that remark, looking around, I realised it was actually special.

Dad also spent a lot of time lying on the sofa ignoring us, not keen on checking our homework, preferring to read newspapers. Of course, he was only human. But, again, he was there. He didn’t take off and sit in a pub with his mates. He was there for us. Made us dinner. Answered questions.

Dad was decent, polite, and quiet. He didn’t hammer things into me, didn’t give me big speeches, didn’t make demands, but I somehow knew I should try my best, work hard, strive. I wasn’t good enough; he hardly ever complimented or praised me, but he did instil a certain ethic in me, perhaps without knowing.

Only as an adult did I realise that he was happy to spend time with his kids because it was a good excuse to be out of the house that was sometimes heavy for all of us. It wasn’t as harmonious as one might have thought, but again, nothing out of the ordinary. Nineteen years of living with my partner/now husband had taught me that relationships aren’t easy. So, yes, many things were on his terms; we may have spent a lot of time standing around finishing lines at the running events he was taking part in after we’d finished the kids’ run (me doing alright, my sister hating every minute, none of us being praiseworthy by Dad), holding his jacket, waiting. Still, it was better than being stuck at home. He dismissed many things that interested me because they didn’t make sense to him. He found faults in me easily. Mother saw only faults. I could have been a very unhappy child. And yet, I was alright. A little quiet and weird, perhaps, but even though they weren’t happy with me or with themselves, they still managed to make me into a functioning adult, motivated and keen to live the best life. They did a good job.

I wasn’t close to my parents. I couldn’t wait to leave the small town, live independently, and travel the world. I was adamant about doing and trying all of the things they said were a waste of time – playing a guitar just for the sake of doing it, modelling even though it wasn’t a real job (but you got paid, so it was real and a job), dancing, skydiving, and many other things. It wasn’t even rebellion. I was simply living my life. Because they had made me a person who made it possible. Perhaps not because of them, but in spite of them, I have become the person I am today. Yes, I wasn’t the ideal daughter they wanted, but, again, they didn’t really tell me or show me what they had expected, wished, or wanted.

A long distance relationship worked for me and my parents. I knew they weren’t happy together, but they were somehow dependent on each other. I thought I would do much better in that sense. Well, now I see how hard it is. Perhaps there is a happily ever after for some. But perhaps that comes after actually seeing a happily ever after in real life first. I wasn’t so lucky. I don’t have cherished memories of my childhood, I wanted to be a grown-up. I was at my happiest when I was single and independent. I don’t think that the way society functions is fair to women. Us being single and happy to be so is seen as weird and wrong. Because we are meant to look after men – that is literally our role (according to society). If I had stayed single, I wouldn’t be a mum, and that would be a loss. And there are good times in family life, too. I would have missed out on that. I am lucky because I have experienced it all; I wasn’t stuck in one relationship after another. In many ways, I am blessed.

I knew that I wouldn’t have a child with just anybody. I didn’t even think about being a single mum. The urge to have children had not been that strong in me. It was all or nothing; my child would have to have a father in life. Not a weekend dad or someone only written on the birth certificate. I always knew that I wouldn’t deny my child a father. My dad managed to stamp that belief in me. Children need both parents. Mums are awesome. They can do it all. But they shouldn’t have to. Even though my husband wasn’t there properly for me because he never understood how much help I really needed before and after the birth of our child, when the time was right (the child was bigger and responsive, basically), he was there for his child and is still there for us. I have my dad to thank for that. However imperfect, fractured, and weird our family might have been, they instilled many good things in me, and I have managed to find the right dad for my child in the end.

So, yes. Family is the thing that holds society together, and it comes in many forms. Even though they mostly don’t know what they are doing or how they are making it work, parents keep on going because it is what they do. And as long as they keep trying their best, they are doing a good job. And we will never stop learning.

Summer is over...

  

I have survived the family holiday. Good on me. It is more challenging than one might expect. For a big part of the year, we are massaged by advertisements for holidays, showing us happy families enjoying their time together, relaxing, frolicking, and having the best time they can get. How comes that the pools, beaches, and restaurants are always empty, pristine, and perfectly lit? How come extended families or groups of friends all get along aimlessly, and nobody is annoyed by having to wait for everyone else to get going or doing what the majority decided?

I used to enjoy travel much more, I have to admit. Airports used to be special places where one was suspended in a no one’s land, and could imagine being somebody else while busy people-watching or looking at the list of destinations and dreaming up the possibilities. Then more security, shops, and budget flights moved in, and the atmosphere shifted somehow, with airports being like shopping malls and trains seeming more luxurious than crammed planes where the shopping pressure continued and the enjoyment of flying was gone.

While I was younger and single, I travelled for work. and holidays were different, often mixed in with work destinations, spontaneous, and carefree. The world seemed to be a big, open adventure. Even for a few years after 9/11, it felt welcoming and safe. I could safely navigate the globe, playing it by ear, because I had no responsibilities other than myself, and I knew how to keep myself safe. I didn’t realise how free I had been back then, but I will never forget it. The slightly hectic and unpredictable lifestyle had taught me that solo travel is the best way to go. I could rely on myself, set my own schedule, and get to know many interesting people. I was on my own, but I was never lonely. Sure, I missed out on some nice photo opportunities, but that’s okay. Snaps from my camera were about places, not about me in them. (Because I happened to travel a lot in the time before smartphones and selfies.) When I happened to fall into a group, it often brought very nice moments and interesting interactions, but in the long-term, I always enjoyed some time on my own. I think these years made me who I am and gave me the confidence that would be hard to build up otherwise.

When I became half of a serious couple, it brought some changes. In the beginning, of course, I wanted to travel with my then boyfriend. I thought it would be the best thing. Well, not really. I realised that I would have to compromise, plan to sync our schedules, and that my favourite places might not be his favourite places. That showing him where I’d grown up would mean enduring similar tours, having to meet many new people, and while having some good time and seeing new places, the freedom I’d been used to would be gone and moments alone would be fewer to come by, and mostly stolen. On the one hand, I had different experiences; on the other, I had to let go or postpone some of the things I wanted to do. Life changed; it is normal, so I accepted less travel and adventure as one of the facts of adulting.

And then came family. Travelling with a child is, of course, a very different game. And playing it by ear doesn’t work very well. Unless you are lucky. Travelling with a baby is a challenge different to travelling with a toddler, young child, or a teenager. At least you need less stuff, and they can carry some of it themselves as they grow up. You can go the whole way and move to all inclusive and theme parks way of travel, or you can pack your child and travel as you used to, while incorporating some child-friendly activities as you go along. I tend to be in the latter group.

After my first summer with a teenager, I am noticing how much life had changed and how different everything is. The little child who would follow along and could be placated with a supply of ice cream and one day at a water park is no more. Instead, the young person next to me has opinions, demands, and, most of all, moods. But at least I can spend time with the teenager and get to know them on the move, in unfamiliar surroundings, out of routine. It is special.

Relationship with a partner, however, gets a beating. The cracks deepen, differences are confirmed, and it is hard to stay polite. Thinking back to the history of our travels, the signs were there from the start. Only in the beginning, one doesn’t believe in them; then, one is willing to overlook them, and, eventually, is willing to accept them as the price of peace. Year by year, that limit of family travel is getting shorter. Soon, the teenager will not be willing to participate in family trips. And I am looking forward to the return to freedom. As life settled and Child grew up, stealing a few days or half-days for a little trip, even locally, had been the one thing that recharged my travel batteries more than anything else.

So, yes, I will do the planning, preparations, packing, and organising for the family trips, but I will also continue being me – the solo-traveller who won’t be tamed.

Under the Spell

  

A magical thing had happened last night: I was dreaming about my characters. The people I have been wrestling on the page have become quite important, and now they were in my dreams, playing very random roles, being as real as anything and anybody else that appear in the sleep state and are hardly remembered. The dream itself wasn’t significant and didn’t mean much, but I was very happy when I remembered it.

It just shows how much stories mean to us, and how writing is a part of us. Writers are readers, and we care about our characters. As writers, we see them becoming truly a part of us. I have written a few books and have spent my time thinking and plotting, being connected to my characters, building a relationship with them. Some are more important than others, I suppose. We can’t help but have favourites. They are real to us. When the book is done, we see our characters off, and we wish them well. The story ends there for some, but we keep thinking about others, wondering what they have done next. Perhaps it is a little seed for a future book.

As a reader, I have always had a connection with the story. I see it in my mind, I imagine the places, homes, surroundings, and, of course, the characters. Sometimes it is annoying seeing them in their film form, because they are too different. Sometimes, the choice and interpretation work, but still, I will keep seeing them my way when I revisit their stories.

So far this year, I have had two very opposite encounters with book characters. The first is Lyra and the long-awaited final book about her – The Rose Field. We have waited a long time for that. I haven’t looked at any reviews or articles, because I don’t want to find spoilers or cloud my judgement, but I am conflicted.

I love Lyra and her world. His Dark Materials holds a special place in my heart; it is one of the books that I will happily come back to and read it again. I listened to it in audiobook, too. I loved the BBC series; I think it was very well made. When the next stories were announced, I was intrigued. And then disappointed. I wasn’t sure why we needed La Belle Sauvage, but I gave it the benefit of the doubt. The second book was at least happening after His Dark Materials, but, again, I can’t say that I liked it. I cared about the story, I wanted to know it, but I didn’t like it. Why would Pantalaimon leave? Why now (besides, of course, to serve the narrative – he had to leave in order for the story to happen)? I struggled through, but I wasn’t happy. Especially after what had happened to Lyra on the train towards the end of book two.

If La Belle Sauvage or The Secret Commonwealth were stand-alone novels, I would probably still read them, but wouldn’t think much about them and wouldn’t be considering any further stories for my list. But I am invested in the world and the characters, I want to know what happens, even if I don’t like it. So, I am disappointed, but I will keep coming for more.

Right now, I am slowly working my way through the third book, and it is more of an obligation than a pleasure. I will see it through, but I cannot imagine taking so long with any other beloved character. And it is a little bit sad. For me, the second trilogy doesn’t hold the same magic. I don’t always understand what is happening and why and whether it even matters. I find the story a bit complicated, scattered, and confusing, although it might be because there was a long time between the publication of the second and third book and I have forgotten quite a few details and characters. I am, however, not willing to re-read the second book at the moment. I won’t say never, because Lyra and Pantalaimon are very dear to me. However, I am not sure that they needed this trilogy.

It is therefore refreshing to find something very different in times of such reading despair. I speak now about Butter by Asako Yuzuki, which I sandwiched in between reading The Rose Field, when I simply didn’t want to read it, but wanted to read something. I don’t usually read more than one fiction book at a time, but I think I have explained why it would have happened now.

If I were losing my will to read and streaming services were calling to steal my time, Butter brought back all the reasons why to read books a thousandfold. If The Rose Field feels like a chore, Butter was like going on a special date every evening when I settled with the book, hoping that time wouldn’t fly too fast, and I would manage more than one chapter before bedtime. Butter is a genius of a book, and Asako Yuzuki is my favourite Japanese writer right now. That book is so difficult to describe or put into a simple category; it is uniquely special. When I read something like that and think about someone thinking it out of nowhere, I feel awe and happiness that we can do that as a species, that we have imagination, fantasy, and a way to make stories. Even if Butter won’t have a sequel, I wouldn’t struggle to remember its characters or story a few years later, because they are unforgettable. Butter cemented my love of reading and storytelling when The Rose Field somehow diminished it. It made me as happy as only a book can make a book lover happy.