Saturday 18 November 2017

I know who's the daddy in our house

Anne Marie Scanlon

Even though something is inevitable it doesn't make it any easier to bear. The young master came home last week and told me another child had informed him "you have no daddy".

I know I'm supposed to be an adult and know better but, at that moment in time, I wanted to inflict a severe amount of physical pain on the other child, even though he is only four years old.

It wasn't just the mother in me that was responding to this but the child who had to endure this nonsense herself for most of her time in national school.

"That's ridiculous," I replied, surprising myself at the hey-ho casual tone of voice I was using (I should have pursued the acting, I'm a brilliant dissembler), "of course you have a daddy, he lives in America."

"But some daddies live with their kids," the young master replied. And that was that. There is nowhere for this conversation to go while my child is still so young.

It kills me that my boy and his father can't get to spend much time together especially when I see him playing with his friends' dads. Ironically though, the young master wouldn't be all that happy if he had to share me with his daddy (or any daddy substitute). He doesn't like sharing me at all.

When it comes to my personal life, the whole parent/child dynamic has been turned on its head. Every time I leave the house my son morphs into a "Victorian dad" and quizzes me on where exactly I am going, who exactly I'm meeting, how long exactly will I be, before finally forbidding me to go at all.

A Victorian dad would be easier to put up with; at least he wouldn't quiver his lower lip and launch into guilt-inducing sobs.

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