‘Who says it’s Father’s Day?’ my son says to me, with the questioning glare of someone who’s been told they have extra tax to pay. ‘Well, the world does,’ I tell him, suddenly self-conscious. I feel like I’m pitching the idea of a global celebration of my greatness to a panel on Dragons’ Den. ‘It’s like a feast day,’ I say, ‘a special day for daddies.’
Something about this – I can’t think what – comes out sounding quite desperate and he looks at me as if I’ve just suggested he prove his love for me with a face tattoo. It’s a look of suspicion, but also of deep and tender concern for my mental state.
This is his fifth Father’s Day, so I can’t help feeling slightly wounded that the concept hasn’t stuck with him. I also can’t help noting that he has never had any such issue with Mother’s Day, which has always seemed to him like common sense. A cynic might note that the event’s proximity to his own birthday – two weeks from now – is making things more difficult for him to abide. It would seem he finds it churlish that the run-up to his special day – a pre-festive period which, for him, began some time around January – should be interrupted so close to the finish line by a day that celebrates me, the lesser of his two parents. In any case, if he’s planning to make or gift me something, this conversation has been a masterstroke of expectation management.
‘So, will all daddies get a Father’s Day?’ he asks. ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘and this isn’t new – it’s every year!’ I attempt to modulate my voice/offence, but also make it very clear I haven’t made this idea up on the spot by myself. ‘You’ve been doing it since you were born. And it’s been around longer than that. I get things for Grandad every year, too.’
At this he perks up. He has never quite stopped being intrigued by the idea that his grandad is my dad, in the same way that I am his. It’s an arrangement he understands on a linguistic level, but finds hard to conceptualise in any functional sense. Any time I talk about being a son, he seems struck by the strangeness that his father has a father, and the coincidence of it being his grandad. I presume it’s the same thrill of recursion I feel when I see pictures of massive cranes being built by other, even bigger cranes.
‘What do you get him?’ he asks. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘things like CDs, or socks or a jumper – and a card, always a card.’ At this he seems inspired. ‘I’ll do a card!’ he says, brightening.
‘You could buy me something, too…’ I begin, but he is no longer listening, running to grab coloured paper and glittery pens. I watch him draw hearts and a toothsome diorama of himself, his mother, sister and me. Not wishing to see this tribute to myself a whole week early, I smile and tell him I really shouldn’t be watching and get up to leave him to it.
‘Yes,’ he says, just in time for me to see he’s actually writing ‘Dear Grandad’ on the page. ‘Don’t tell him!
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Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78ats
