Ours is a close-knit family, even though my daughter now more often than not shuts her bedroom door in our face, even though my wife’s peripatetic ways mean I don’t know whether we’ll have the next meal, or even the next cup of tea, together, and my son, when he’s in Delhi, seems to treat his own home like a B&B. They may have grown up and a bit away, so you’d think they’d know their minds by now, but it seems when they’re up against life-affirming decisions, or at least the next exam, there’s always home and mom-dad to crawl back to.
Nemesis came my daughter’s way on Monday when the college decided the students needed to test themselves with an on-site project, giving them just the morning to write up a report on their ambitions. I learnt about it when my daughter texted me a message: “Papa, please tell me my strengths and weaknesses, and also my goals.” Our kids have trained us well, so we react to situations rather than ask questions, but here was an opportunity too good to pass up, so I messaged back, “On a score of one to ten, strengths two, weaknesses eight, goals zero,” only to be smartly rapped on my knuckles: “Everybody’s dads are helping with great inputs, do you want me to be the only idiot on campus?”
When you’re 50, it’s difficult to think like an 18-year-old, especially when projects such as these are set to trip you up rather than reveal your true personality. In truth, I SMSed back, she was diligent to a fault (when it came to being critical of us, especially, but why mention that?), organised (“but not when it comes to her room or wardrobe”, my wife prompted), and a team player, as long as it wasn’t the home team — and these were her strengths. Because I was on thin ice, I skirted around the issue of weaknesses — the project would pass, but if we had to live together, criticism was not going to help us old fogeys any. Goals? “To become a bully,” my wife was smarting from her last conversation with our daughter. “To be a leader,” I wrote instead. “To manipulate people to give in to her point of view,” my wife insisted. “To achieve professional growth at considerable sacrifice,” I interpreted.
“Okay, okay,” my daughter texted back, “but who’s my role model, and have I read a book that has inspired me?” I thought of the chick-lit crowding her bedside table, which was inspirational when it came to managing everything from fashion to friends, but aspirational? Nah! As for a role model, she’d never settle for Mother T, or Indira G, but neither would Britney S or Lindsay L look good on the CV. I was still trying to figure a worthwhile role model when the next query arrived: What initiatives was she undertaking to overcome any shortcomings? “In short please,” she messaged next, “and don’t take your time doing it.”
I must have scribbled some gibberish, about entrepreneurship and angel investors and thought leadership and niche marketing, because all of it seemed to pass muster, as she adapted the information to the project, and I sighed in relief and set off for work, but before I got to office, another message was flashing on my mobile. “Basically,” she wanted to know, “who am I?”
“I’m demanding, lost, adolescent, confused, ambitious, non-motivated but seeking my Eureka moment!” I wrote back, expecting her to send me an array of angry emoticons, and rejoicing, then forgetting about it when none came. In the evening, at home, I received a big hug from her. “I’m the coolest kid in college,” she said, “because everyone else’s dad is such a nerd.”
