the child for me

He was playing inside the car. His grandma and ayah were having a tough time keeping him within. And as soon as he saw his mother coming towards the car, where she had left them to do a quick errand (everything has to be done quickly in her life these days, he rules it, you see) his face transformed. Oh, he continued to look every inch of the brat that he is, but a special smile erupted on his face and reflected the softness that came to his mother’s expression. She- his mother, my friend- doesn’t have that kind look otherwise these days- its usually too troubled, too cynical, too burdened, too defeated. Anyway, that little exchange I caught between the two brought up the question again- do I want a child of my own?- a question that is getting posed way too frequently not just by others who point to the biological clock ticking away but one I find asking myself way too often for my happiness.

Do I want a child then? I really don’t know. It’s an awful world to bring up one. And I would share the hypocrisy of the progressives- critical of and yet choosing the mainstream. Kids judging themselves according to what they have, what brands and how much. Parents pushing them to become super kids. Schools streamrolling children into marks producing machines. I fear ever having to tell my child- be practical. But more than that, doubts over my own ability to bring up a kid. What if I get bored. What if I don’t love my kid. What if I resent the disruption in my life. And as I keep saying, no more film festivals for a long long time. The irreversibility of parenthood is nothing less than horror. And then I don’t know if I want to go through the pregnancy. I would like to adopt, but would I discriminate. Perhaps I fear a child also because I suspect a tendency on my part to want to completely own another person. People I know say that is no cause for worry because this and all other decisions will be worked out with a partner.

That’s more scary if you ask me. I wonder if there really something by way of an equal parenthood. I don’t see much of it anyway. All I see is irony – the mother who is simultaneously both overworked and guilty and the father who ends up being loved more precisely because he has less time to give. And then I see competitive parenthood all around, most partners don’t share the child or the experience with each other, they try to prove to each other and everyone else how they are the better parent, and especially how they are the child’s preferred parent.

So, please no partner for child rearing. For romance, yes. In my imagination, its always been me and my child. This ultimate example of romantic partnership is for me the last bastion of singlehood, and I hold on it fervently.