‘W ho says it’s Father’s Day?’ my son says to me, with the questioning glare of someone who’s been told they have extra tax to pay. ‘Well, the world does,’ I tell him, suddenly self-conscious. I feel like I’m pitching the idea of a global celebration of my greatness to a panel on Dragons’ Den .
‘It’s like a feast day,’ I say, ‘a special day for daddies.’ Something about this – I can’t think what – comes out sounding quite desperate and he looks at me as if I’ve just suggested he prove his love for me with a face tattoo. It’s a look of suspicion, but also of deep and tender concern for my mental state.
‘It’s like a feast day,’ I tell my boy. ‘A special day for daddies’ This is his fifth Father’s Day, so I can’t help feeling slightly wounded that the concept hasn’t stuck with him. I also can’t help noting that he has never had any such issue with Mother’s Day, which has always seemed to him like common sense.
A cynic might note that the event’s proximity to his own birthday – two weeks from now – is making things more difficult for him to abide. It would seem he finds it churlish that the run-up to his special day – a pre-festive period which, for him, began some time around January – should be interrupted so close to the finish line by a day that celebrates me, the lesser of his two parents. In any case, if he’s planning to make or gift me something, this conversation has been a masterstroke of expectation m.
