Lesson Learned
As C.S. Lewis famously said, "You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending."
Good parenting practices are as old as time. But of course, they remain new to someone who discovers them for the first time, and absolutely refreshing to those who have cause to be reminded of them. That was the case with me some days ago when I showed up at my daughter’s school for her Float Parade.
She wasn’t expecting me, and frankly speaking I wasn’t planning to be there. Neither was her mum. It was one of those days things got super busy at work for both of us. But as luck would have it (a combination of cancelled meetings and my boss being the most amazing person as always), I found myself in the great colourful hallways of this magnificent institution of learning where mini geniuses are being engaged in philosophical discourse, numerical conformations, poetry and various forms of academic enlightenment. Haha, scratch that. The great colourful hallways of kindergarten school where the scholars get to compare notes on the latest parent-manipulation tactics and most effective techniques of getting mum and dad to spend on toys.
Other parents, teachers and some grade-school students have gathered waiting for the parade to start. The lively chatter, cheerful laughter, occasional giggles, muffled last-minute instructions from the teachers to the parade participants all conspired with the uplifting music wafting through the overhead speakers to create this incredible feeling of happiness and excitement. There were brightly-coloured balloons, sparkling confetti, painted cardboards and lovely decorative items everywhere. The air even smelled beautiful like sweet strawberries. I smiled and nodded at some of the parents around me who were there beaming with pride. When they smiled and nodded back, I felt that kindred spirit of people collectively bonded by the personal sacrifices made every day to give the best they could to their kids.
Then it was showtime. Beautiful chaos.
The door at the other end of the hallway swung open and out bounced the cutest humans – bundles of joy completely dressed in costumes and handmade paper masks, all either carrying or pulling the floats they built at home. They were led by their teacher, a wonderful, kind-hearted, middle-aged lady whom I’ve never seen not smiling. As they clapped and burst into a song accompanied by the triumphant soundtrack from the overhead speakers, the hallway erupted in thunderous claps, whistles and shouts of joy and encouragement. We were all proud parents, siblings, friends, school mates cheering on the kids as they marched down the hallway with their floats like Roman soldiers returning home from a victorious battle.
You could tell that the original plan was for the kids to move down the hall in a single file, but who cares! Fist-bumps here, high-fives there! Some kids tumbling over the floats in front of them, some others breaking rank to go hug mum and dad. They were all over the place like corks flying off vigorously shaken champagne bottles. And oh my, were those floats beautiful! It seemed each kid had built a float that perfectly matched their personality. There were nerdy floats, big floats, small floats, colorful floats, playful floats, all sorts of floats, each unique and beautiful in its own way.
The parade continued to march down the hallway with pomp and ceremony. We continued to clap, dance and shout out words of appreciation and encouragement.
I caught a glimpse of my daughter before the parade got to my end of the hallway. To any other onlooker, she was as happy and excited as every one of those darling munchkins. But I know my little girl. There was a certain reluctance to her bounce, an almost imperceptible hesitation to allow herself to participate fully in the proceedings of the day. It was almost like she was keeping up appearances because she felt she had to. You wouldn’t know if you looked at her, but I could feel it. I could sense it, and I knew exactly what I had to do.
The way she froze on her tracks, peeled the mask off her face, and squinted in my direction with mouth wide open could only mean one thing – she has seen me. I had taken a couple of steps from where I stood to shamelessly plant myself right where nobody coming down the hallway can possibly miss me. What happened next was exactly as you would have imagined – she tore away from the marching parade and ran towards me as fast as she could. It didn’t matter that the teacher was calling after her, or that the float was tumbling about in her wake. It didn’t matter that she was screaming “Daddy!” as she somehow managed not to lose her balance and topple over. And it certainly didn’t matter that I was down on both knees, heart thumping, arms spread out wide waiting to envelope her in the biggest, warmest, daddy-est embrace. Seconds later, she slammed into me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I could feel the quickness of her breath, her beating heart against my chest. She then held my face in her palms, and said to me in between soul-touching smiles and the honest enthusiasm of a five-year-old “Daddy, I knew you would come. I knew you would come.”
There are many times I’ve wished I could pause life, freeze a moment in time and re-live it in slow motion. This was one of those times. I know I can’t turn back the hands of time, but I also know that indescribable moment will remain permanently etched in my memory and I will go back to it time and again. And it’s simply because it’s now become my new calibration for true joy and genuine happiness.
When I stood up and she rejoined the parade that was just a few steps away, I realized how overwhelmed I was with emotions. I continued to clap for her and the other kids, but I was fighting back tears. I could feel the lump in my throat and the tightness in my stomach. I was shaking in my clothes and was afraid I would let myself go. It didn’t help that some of the parents gave me these encouraging smiles and nods. Neither did it help that this dad behind me placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it this supportive squeeze. The tears burned in my eyes, and I tried my very best to blink them back. I thought about how happy she was to see me, how she continued to look back at me with smiling eyes as the parade marched on. I thought about how sad she would have been if I hadn’t shown up, and how she would have probably tried not to make a big deal of it when she came back home. I thought about how it would have weighed on her to see other parents except hers be there to cheer on their kids. I also reflected on how unbothered I was about not making sincere efforts to attend the parade. I had put my job before my kid, and that broke me. “How bad can it be if I cry and let it all out?”, I asked myself. Yeah, it will be a tad embarrassing, but what does it matter? Well, for starters, I’ll freak out all the kids there, turn the attention to myself, ruin the parade for the kids, probably end up on someone’s TikTok and become a meme on Facebook… “the Weeping Dad”. I quickly wiped my eyes and prayed that no one noticed.
I’m still new in this fatherhood business, and sometimes these things hit me like a ton of bricks. This time, it was the realization yet again that being present in the lives of our kids matters much more that we may know. That showing up for our kids, even in the simplest and most ordinary of ways, can have this over-sized impact that sometimes manifests itself in the moment but definitely shapes who they eventually become later in life. Regardless of how old our kids are, those seemingly little things and moments matter; they are important. While I’m grateful for the opportunity to remind myself of this important truth, I couldn’t help but wonder about the times I may have failed to show up for my kids and to be the father they needed.
I have little or no recollection of what my parents said to me when I was growing up. But I have this vivid memory of them always being present. I look back now as an adult and I realize how incredibly demanding it must have been for them to combine their work, life, passion and still always be there for me and my siblings. Times were hard then, but they made it work. Now I’m able to appreciate the sacrifices they made, and I feel I’ll never be able to completely repay them for their love and selflessness. It also hasn’t stopped. They continue to show up for me, my siblings, and their grand-kids in a million little ways.
Eventually the parade came to an end. The music had quietened down and everywhere you looked there were parents huddling, chatting, laughing, smiling, taking pictures and hugging their kids for the job well done. Some of the grade-school students milled around probably happy they didn’t have to be in yet another class. Some of the teachers were handing out fliers for some upcoming school activity. The atmosphere was still buzzing and colourful, and the air still smelled like sweet strawberries. But I now looked upon everything happening around me from a different perspective. It was like I swapped the lens with which I interpreted the world with something different…a good kind of different.
My daughter came and held my hands. She wanted to give me a quick tour of her classroom and introduce me to some of her classmates. I obliged but not before taking some pictures with her. The classroom was a thoughtfully designed and meticulously arranged space. I saw where they hung their backpacks, where they put away their shoes, binders and craft materials. I liked the space, and I took a few pictures. One of the mothers who was volunteering walked up to me and offered me a cookie. It’s the most reflectively and perhaps solemnly I’ve ever nibbled on a cookie, or anything for that matter. As I stood at the corner watching the kids play with so much glee and joyful abandon, all I could think about was this – you have to always show up for your kids, for your family, for your friends, for the people you love. You have to always show up for you.