I HAVE a relentlessly busy schedule every day. I work four to six hours at a publishing house, spend long hours at my computer writing articles for a local magazine, pore over law textbooks and photocopied cases for my legal studies, and manage a lively household with my wife, full of three inquisitive and active kids. In a way, I am a part-timer in each of my current roles. But aren’t we all in this modern age of multitasking?
With my current setup, I have sacrificed precious hours of sleep and completely surrendered my leisure time—things like reading good literature, watching blockbuster movies on DVD, or sharing a few beers with relatives and peers. The only upside is that I never have time to be bored. Multitasking has always been a perfect antidote to boredom, or perhaps a convenient justification to survive the mad rush of the modern world. But it comes at a price, and a heavy one indeed, paid mostly by my family.
I admit I have less time for my kids. I may be physically present every day, but it is often just a looming presence meant to keep them on their best behavior. It is as if my being around serves only as a silent command: they must study their lessons diligently, they must not make unnecessary noise while I work from home, and they must listen to their mother. If they don’t, I find myself imposing sanctions or delivering a heavy dose of scolding.
I had promised them that Sundays would be reserved for fun, relaxation, and Mass—a good time for me to cook and serve them their favorite dishes. But for the past three years—ever since I resigned from my regular job to pursue law school, just a year after my wife also left her job to look after the kids—I have rarely fulfilled these promises. Even on weekends without take-home work, I have to conduct extensive research online for my articles, catch up on my case readings, or attend makeup classes at the college.
Instead, I have comforted myself with the small moments: the goodnight kisses on nights when I manage to come home early due to a shortened class, the hurried goodbye kisses before they head to school, or the pasalubong—usually donuts and pizza, their all-time favorites—that I bring home to convince them that everything is okay with Dad after all.
But am I really sure they aren't complaining?
Not long ago, I came across a story online that serves as a poignant symbol for my situation. It was about a little boy who waited up for his father to return from work. Surprised to find him still awake at 10:00 PM, the tired father asked why he hadn't slept yet. The boy replied that he had an important question. Exhausted, the father tried to brush him off, promising to answer it in the morning. But the boy insisted, explaining that the question was bothering him so much it was keeping him awake.
Finally, the father gave in. "How much do you earn per hour, Dad?" the little boy asked.
Shocked and slightly irritated, the father replied, "Is that your important question? I earn 20 dollars an hour, son."
The boy smiled, reached under his pillow, and pulled out a small pouch. "Can you loan me two dollars, Dad?"
Upset but wanting to end the conversation, the father handed him the two dollars. "We will discuss this tomorrow," he muttered.
The boy took the two dollars, reached back into his pouch, and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills, quarters, and nickels. He counted the money carefully, handed the entire pile to his father, and said, "Here is 20 dollars, Dad. Can you please give me an hour of your time?"
It is a deceptively simple story, but it carries a profound message about how deeply children cherish the time they get to spend with their parents. I felt a wave of shame realizing that I had become a mechanical wage-earner, focusing solely on providing for the material needs of my family. Worse, when my resolve was tested by domestic stress or conflicts at the office, I would erupt like a dormant volcano, shutting myself away from my children's peering eyes even more. I had become completely oblivious to the fleeting days I should have been sharing with them. I was hyper-sensitive to my own stress, but blind to their emotional needs.
On more than one occasion, I had dismissed my children when they approached me while I was working. Because of my rigid boundaries, they rarely came to me anymore. When they had questions about their homework, I would tell them to ask their mother instead, or I would offer a clipped, short answer entirely bereft of explanation.
Thanks to that story and the day-long reflections it triggered, I have formed a new resolve to change my ways. I realized I have been missing out on the best parts of fatherhood: the playing, the hugging, the listening, and just goofing around.
I recalled the days when they were toddlers and I would eagerly answer every single question they threw my way. I loved seeing their toothless grins when I replied to queries that ranged from the highly philosophical ("Why is there a God?" or "Where is He?") to the delightfully absurd ("What makes a housefly pregnant?" or "How do ants lay eggs?"). Those were the days before I was utterly swamped with work.
Re-energized by this realization, when my ten-year-old recently asked me why prices keep going up, I took the time to answer him as thoroughly and scholarly as a dedicated teacher guiding an eager pupil. And just last week, he caught me looking up a word in the Encarta dictionary.
He asked, "Dad, why are you using a dictionary? I thought you already knew every word in there."
I smiled—not to mock his mistake, but out of fondness for his innocence and his grand impression of me as an absolute genius.
The time will inevitably come when my children will stop asking me questions altogether. They will grow up, keep their thoughts to themselves, or look to others for answers. Eventually, they might learn so much that they no longer see a need to ask me anything at all. In their eyes, I will retrogress from a know-it-all Dad, to a doesn't-quite-know-everything Dad, and finally to a doesn't-know-anything Dad.
So, while I am still in that beautiful first stage, I must make the absolute most of it. I want to answer every single question and happily be their know-it-all Dad for as long as I can. With better time management and an unshakeable resolve, I want to show them more affection, communicate constant affirmation, and give them my undivided attention. While nurturing them, I want to truly enjoy being a father—and ensure my children always enjoy belonging to me.
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