I can still feel the weight of my daughters as newborns in my arms. Sometimes, when one of them questions something I’ve said, I think about those first days. I remember holding you in my hands. How did you grow into someone who could make me rethink the way I see the world?
Before I became a dad, I was fairly carefree. Then two little people depended on me, and their needs often came ahead of my own. That was the first adjustment. I had to show up even when I was tired, had run out of patience, or thought my day was over. Many dads will have their own story about when that part of the job became clear to them. Mine involves stationery.
At nine on a Sunday night, one of my daughters would conveniently remember that she had to make a chart for school. It was due the next morning, of course. Off I’d go around town, looking for a shop that was still open and had chart paper and whatever else the assignment needed. I counted myself lucky if it was a Sunday. Sometimes the announcement came on a weekday, after a full day of work.
My elder daughter was never a loud rebel. In her teens, she would quietly do her own thing or quietly decide against doing something. She rarely shared her struggles with me while she was still trying to make sense of what she was going through. After she went to college, she began questioning my suggestions openly. I’d grown so used to her letting them pass that it took me a while to hear her out without taking offence.
I’d set up Google’s family app to track her movements while she was at college. One time when she came home, she told me none of her friends had it. Why was I tracking her? Did I think she would do something wrong?
That was a jolt. I trusted her. I’d been so focused on how reassured I felt knowing where she was that I hadn’t considered how it felt to her. I removed the app immediately, even though every worried instinct told me to keep it. Taking it off took a moment. Learning to sit with the worry took much longer.
I remember her first full night out with her roommate. At one in the morning, I couldn’t get her on the phone. She’d already shared her live location with me, but I panicked anyway. I called her again and again, then practically phoned the entire world around her. I got a royal rebuttal for that one.
I’d always believed my children should have the freedom to explore and make their own choices. At one in the morning, I found out how much self-discipline it took to live by that belief. Over time, I learnt to let her go about her life without keeping tabs on her. As she had more room to make her own choices, I saw how thoughtfully she could handle that freedom.
The more I heard my elder daughter out, the more I recognised myself in her. I was quiet about a lot of things growing up, too. And I’m a rebel myself. I want a convincing reason before I’ll do something I’ve been asked to do. These days, when she challenges a suggestion, I try to give her a reason I can stand behind. Sometimes I hear myself explaining it and realise I can drop the suggestion altogether.
My younger daughter is very vocal. If something makes no sense to her, she won’t mince words. Her questions come at every turn, in varying degrees of difficulty. Sometimes I have to dig deep and stand by what I’ve said. Sometimes she makes a point I hadn’t considered, and I have to say, “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
I grew up in a traditional family with plenty of rules. No one would have dared question our elders the way my daughters question me. Their little questions about why we do certain things sent me looking for reasons I’d never been given. Sometimes I found a good one. Sometimes all I could remember was that we’d always done it that way.
I’ve also learnt to say, “I don’t know.” When one of my daughters asks me a question I can’t answer, I can tell her so and see what we can find out together. I want them to feel comfortable saying those words, to me or to anyone. I hope that hearing me say them makes it a little easier for them to admit when they don’t know something, without worrying about a lecture or what someone might think of them.
When the girls were small and came running to me with a problem, I’d go the extra mile to solve it. I carried that habit into their teenage years, when they began facing things I’d never had to deal with at their age. I’d sometimes be so busy working out what I would do that I’d miss what they were trying to tell me.
Sometimes, as a dad, you just need to be there, like the moon. You give your child room to say what’s on her mind without rushing to judge or advise. You ask a question if it helps. I’ve watched my daughters talk something through and find an answer I could never have come up with for them. It took me time to get comfortable with that. I used to feel I’d left something unfinished if I hadn’t offered a solution.
I notice the difference in the rest of my life, too. I’m slower to judge people. I used to start forming my reply while someone was still speaking. Now I try to hear them out before I respond. Sometimes the reply I had ready has very little to do with what the person was actually trying to tell me.
I am also entering a phase in which my children’s dependence on me is gradually decreasing, and I need to fill the space they once occupied in my life with my own interests and hobbies. The period when children depend on you for everything is incredibly sweet, though demanding, but I am slowly transitioning into the next stage of life, where I must accept that my children will have their own lives, choices, and ways of doing things. As I reflect on this change, the movie Abhiyum Naanum, which is very close to both me and my elder one, comes to mind. The father’s journey in the film resonates deeply with me, as he learns to let go while finding meaningful ways to remain engaged and connected to his child.
There’s something of a fairytale in how clearly I remember holding my daughters as newborns and how often they still surprise me. They’ve grown into people with ideas of their own, and I’m proud when they hold their ground with me.
They may be growing up fast, but I’m still on the job.