Pancakes

I am trying to get a toddler ready to leave the house. It is dark and cold outside, and I am a little maxed out. Between the weather, the isolation, the tension around politics and covid, I am not the best version of myself. To this, add the natural impulses and proclivities of a two-and-a-half-year-old: testing each limit, throwing everything at reach and going into high and low emotions. You have been there, and you can see it coming, someone is going to end up crying.

In my third attempt to put the winter boots, after the snow suit and ten minutes of trying to change a diaper, I have to sit, take some deep breathes and try to remember that my only job is to be clear and kind. Being an imposing, patriarchal dad is very easy. For men like me, raised in the heartland of machismo, I know well how to create and atmosphere of fear and intimidation. I experienced it growing up in ways that only age and time have allowed me to explore and understand.

So, I try to take a step back, breathe and remember that it will take me a lifetime to be a feminist parent, but it will take me a second to be a patriarchal dad.

In the middle of all of this, my child picks up his animal backpack and hangs it on the front doorknob. I see he puts inside a slim tupperware, the last remnant of sushi some days ago. I am not sure what is going on, but in my adult mind, this is another tactic from his end to distract us from the tasks at hand. I am focused on getting us out of the door, so I disregard the detail and engaged in the excruciating ritual of putting mittens, mask and hat.

Then, he asked me to put his backpack on. I have no energy to ask why or decide unilaterally that there is no need to take it for the five-minute car ride from our house to his grandparents. Dutifully, I helped him put it on his back. I started to feel that we were going to make it out of the house victorious. While I was putting my mask and gloves, he took two steps back and stepped on the puzzle I have asked him to put away. He fell awkwardly, broke a puzzle piece and started to cry loudly.

When we arrived at his grandparents’ house, I am grumpy and frustrated. I feel that all the energy in the world has been sucked out of me and the thought of being with him again, all day the next day is hard. I love him. I absolutely love him. He is the best gift in my life. At the same time, I am mundane, I get in my own head, I lose patience because I fell as I have no control over my life. I keep thinking about my family back at home and how much I am scared for them. I am also tired of being at home.

Then, I see how he gets to the kitchen and places his backpack on the chair. Delicately, he opened the big pouch and pulled out the tupperware. He walks toward his grandfather and says “I made you some pancakes this morning” handing him the piece of plastic with the make-believe pancakes. His grandfather responds graciously and places the tupperware on the counter.

I ate pancakes that morning. In my sleep-in day, mama and son made banana and strawberry pancakes. He was so proud of how good they came out. He saved some for his grandparents and was excited to bring them as a present that night for dinner.

I knew someone was going to end up crying, and in many times, it is me.

Standing by the doorway watching this scene unfold, I let my glasses fogged under the mask and the tears. I thought about how I get so fixated into getting from point A to B that I lose sight and insight into the beauty of being a child. I get so anxious about life in my own head that I am unable to take a moment and ask my child basic questions with curiosity. I did not take his backpack away; I did not tell him that he should not take it as it was empty. I did not mess up his act of love and kindness. But I thought about it and I chose not to say a word to avoid a meltdown. A meltdown that would have been an obligation for him due to my blunt disregard for his feelings and his independence.

There are the moments where I must ask myself: who is educating who here?

This was a hard reminder that trying to be a feminist parent must come with a consistent way of creating space for your child, to genuinely respect them and treat them as equals. Just because they are small and still don’t have the complex language to articulate ideas we as parents can relate to, does not give us the right to disregard them, to silence them. It challenges us to create reciprocity and empathy, for a child’s journey to express themselves, to learn about how to express emotions and articulate them. It challenges me to give the respect, care and attention to the person I love the most in the world every single moment, not when I chose to. Care should not be a choice; it is an unwavering commitment to be bounded by love regardless of the situation.

In this master of love called parenting, the pancake lesson is a dear one to keep. It is a reminder that regardless of the upsetting realities of the world and the circumstances we live in, there is a miracle of hope and love evolving daily in front of my eyes and it is up to me to nurture or to undermine it. For this, I am responsible to chose every day.