I’m a tough father. I will say all sorts of complimentary things about Kym here, where she cannot read it, but in front of her, I am rarely appreciative of her. I keep pushing her, telling her she can do better if she only tried. Sometimes, it reduces her to tears (especially when it comes to mathematics and exercise), and I quickly back off. But most times, she persists even in the face of drill-sergeant-like behaviour on my part.
The story unfolds this morning when we were working out together in the gym (as we do in monsoons), where she does her cardio and freehand exercises, and I (attempt to) pump weights to keep my 50-year-old muscles from atrophying. Recently, I have engaged the services of a personal trainer, who has taken it upon himself to find out how much he can get me to abuse my body without actually killing me. We work out inside the premises, and Kym does her thing in the adjoining large, covered verandah that’s open from 3 sides.
So, imagine the scene as it happened: Between my sets, I ambled out to correct her form and tell her what she was doing wrong. She was trying hard, but I still yelled at her that she was an athlete, that pain was her friend, that this workout routine was nothing in front of her, and that she was stronger than this. I ended by shouting, ‘Come on, COME ON, COME ON. Don’t stop. Keep going. What’s wrong with you? Are you a weakling? Push. Push. PUSH. Go. Go.GO.’ right into her face as she visibly struggled with red cheeks and straining short breaths, gritting her teeth and throwing her shoulder into the routine.
I turned around and stomped back inside, with the adrenaline still pumping, picked up the weights, did 15 reps of the last set and then dropped into the plank hold position as my coach counted off seconds on his phone’s stopwatch. At around the 1m:30s mark, I started flagging, with my legs wobbling and arms shaking and breath coming in short gasps. The coach said ’30 seconds to go,’ and I whispered, ‘Sir, bas. Aaj itnaa hi kaafi hai. Nahi ho sakta.’ when I felt a tiny hand on my right bicep.
I turned up to see my child with the kindest eyes looking at me, caressing my right bicep with her little hand. And then, in the softest voice I’ve heard ever, she said,
‘You can do it, Baba bear. I believe in you.’
My coach is still wondering why I was crying.
P.S.: The pic below is what she does when she knows her mum is going through a difficult day (based on overhearing her work calls and general demeanour at home). She quietly steals Mamma bear’s diary and writes encouraging messages in it to be discovered later. What, sometimes we both wonder, have we done to deserve this child?
