Not every papa is as lucky as me.
There are parents out there who never quite click with their kids. Parents who try their best, but who get no moments of true connection with their children. Only frustration, and the absence of frustration.
Yes, I have my share of frustration. Trying to get a certain little man to talk about his day is tantamount to digging a tunnel through a stone wall with a toothbrush and the last chapter of Game of Thrones.
And there are certainly traits we don’t share. He came into the world long and lean with big hands and ropey muscles. His papa could be not-inaccurately described favorably to a fire hydrant, or mailbox. He loves roller coasters, spinning around running in circles, merry-go-rounds, if it exerts centrifugal force, he’s already in line. Me? I don’t like to look behind me too fast, lest I get queasy.
But all that which divides us is just water under the hot dogs, because my boy likes massaman curry.
You have to understand, there’s always curry in my fridge. A week doesn’t go by without me making 2-4 batches. I don’t even think of it as my favorite food, I eat it so often.
And now my son likes it. My son likes curry!
Likes it. Let’s not go crazy here. It’s no melon, no ham, nothing like that.
And a papa understands – it’s not like I have some sort of agenda for the guy beyond he’s relatively self-sufficient, and kind. He’s his own little man, he’ll make his mistakes and buy albums he’ll regret and I’ll love him. But finding out he’s taking after me? I’m just wandering around, trying not to pass out cigars to everybody.