Writing about children
“There are no rational answers; there is something that borders on mystery, and fundamentally, being a father or mother reconciles us with the mystery.”
Last December, I took a course titled ¡Vas a ver cuando llegue tu padre!, (“You’ll See When Your Father Arrives!”), focused on nonfiction narratives about fatherhood. It was led by Damián Huergo, a writer, father, and skilled conversationalist. The idea was to explore the mutations of fatherhood through the analysis of fiction and nonfiction literature from recent decades.
During the four weeks, we discussed the figure of the father/friend, patriarchal culture, fatherhood as a choice or an imperative, fatherhood at different ages, the myth that “men can become fathers whenever they wish,” parenting styles, and changes in couples with the arrival of children.
Although women still spend more time with children, fathers are dedicating more time than ever to their kids. In other words: we men have much to do, but we are already doing more than before.
From this perspective, a rhetorical question arises about the authors of the Latin American boom (and others): how could they talk and write about domestic life and children if that was not the material they had at hand?
At that time, these topics did not occupy their minds or time simply because they were not engaged in them. Their energy was focused on what they considered "the great themes of the world," which did not include the "small" domestic world but rather addressed the "prestigious" universe of ideas, politics, and transcendent decisions.
"20th-century literature was parricidal, more concerned with killing biological and literary fathers than with observing children. A literature without children. Or rather, with children who did not enter the office nor the pages of their parents' books," wrote Huergo in Coolt.
With the winds of change and advancements in feminism, something is shifting. It is slow, with progress and setbacks. In this pendular movement, books have emerged in recent years where male writers do what mothers have been doing for years: they talk about their children.
There are authors like Chile’s Alejandro Zambra, Spanish-Argentinian Andrés Neuman, and then many from Argentina (Andrés Burgo, Agustín Valle, Eduardo Halfon, Juan Sklar), among others, each with different approaches and explorations. Argentine journalist
also does this in his newsletter.This is a novel phenomenon in literary history that, as Neuman says in an interview (in Spanish), “has always focused on terrible and vengeful fathers or absent fathers who cause harm by omission. Literature is filled with these fathers but little has been written about fathers who change diapers, try to balance life and work as best as possible, and raise or educate from tenderness or care.”
“Almost no literature writes about the relationship between fathers and babies before and after birth. It seems to be a territory that only women have written wonderful things about,” says Neuman.
A challenge
Where do the difficulties of writing about children lie? Generally speaking, when we write about fathers, we talk about their absence, about what happened: we speak of the past.
When writing about children — especially in those early years when everything shakes us — we talk about the present: what is happening and what we are feeling. Everything can change by the end of a paragraph, because a child interrupts you screaming in your office or because you see him sleeping peacefully.
A key to understanding this may be that “the past” refers to accumulated years condensed and cut to form a static photo (of that past) based on a narrative to tell a particular story (with certain “certainty”).
When writing about a child in their early years, it becomes clearer that we are writing about ourselves through another person — just as we do when writing about our fathers. Writing about the present is more elusive because reality is as close and mundane as it is dynamic and contradictory. Some of my initial certainties about fatherhood were constant change and uncertainties.
When we write about our fathers, there is likely less movement and our internal narrative is more settled (of course, if we write at 20 it won’t be the same as at 30 or 40). Meanwhile, that “photo” — a static element — of children is almost impossible because it is constantly forming: it’s a chameleonic photo.
Writing is always uncertain. We never fully know what we are doing or generating. It’s even more so when writing about children; we do not know the effects of our parenting on them or how it will affect us and our relationships.
I wonder if the difficulty in writing about children lies in the uncertainty of this writing that tries to lean on a constantly transforming present along with the discomfort generated by the lack of certainties (perhaps for men more than for women?) — the omnipresence of doubt and uncertainty. It’s like stepping onto a stage to expose ourselves and face our vulnerabilities...
Can gender expectations and roles make men feel uncomfortable or insecure when showing our vulnerabilities as fathers?
I celebrate that men are writing about their children and the challenges of fatherhood. After an outpouring of romantic and poetic texts, an approach is beginning to emerge where fathers express what women have been experiencing for decades and what many mothers write about: the two faces of having children — a balance between romanticizing and demonizing parenthood.
Being parents is beautiful but difficult and challenging. Watching a child grow up is incredible but requires humility and stepping out of the spotlight for an indefinite period. Postponing one’s own desires and interests can equal resignation or turn into a lesson learned — or both.
Mixed feelings
The mix of contradictory feelings is common in parenthood. Days pass slowly due to the tremendous demands of raising children — especially with nuclear families becoming increasingly isolated. Yet years fly by quickly. Why does this happen? It’s as if time has two parallel speeds for the same situation.
It’s moving to look back at what we’ve left behind. It’s vibrant yet exhausting to focus on the present. We feel excitement for what lies ahead.
Lorenzo is turning six this week and will finish kindergarten in June. There’s happiness tinged with nostalgia for this stage that is coming to an end. I am happy yet exhausted by this present filled with life and continuous learning. One eye looks forward eagerly to what life will allow me to witness alongside him — to what lies ahead for Lorenzo — and I hope I can witness his future while I am still on this side of the world.
In just a moment, I can experience extreme tenderness when my children say “I love you dad,” hug me, and laugh heartily. I also feel frustration or confusion when Lorenzo tells me: “You’re the worst dad in the world,” whether for refusing to buy him ice cream or not letting him stay longer in the park.
This puts me face-to-face with something that is useful for life in general: not taking things personally or permanently while continuing to give what we can from a place of love. It’s challenging and painful; it demands a lot from us. We all need and want to be reciprocated at some point — especially with such immense love as that we have for a child.
As we grow older, from an adult perspective, we value things we didn’t appreciate before: that aunt who took you out for your first hot chocolate; that grandmother who spoiled you in ways only now you can understand; that mother who shouted things you didn’t want to hear anymore because she lived that way yet never left you behind; or that father without emotional expression skills but who tried hard to show you he loved you in his own way.
Lorenzo and León are kings of “no,” “careful,” and “stop,” they are an uncontrollable whirlwind. Much of our shared time involves nothing more than being with them. I can't go to the bathroom without hearing screams from both of them and feeling the threat that something might happen (and things do happen, of course: one cries, one gets hurt, a glass breaks, a wire gets cut...).
A few weeks ago, León broke two wooden chairs for no apparent reason — for an incomprehensible outburst of anger. Sometimes I feel like Irene and I are pursuing a PhD in breathing and patience without even knowing it.
In moments of confusion, when I don’t understand my children but their behavior clearly shows they’re overwhelmed or struggling with something they cannot express in another way, I try not to lose my patience or shout. Many times I feel bad for not achieving this; I become anxious or guilty. I know they aren’t made of glass but I still fear they might break. Sometimes it comforts me to think: we’re doing our best, and we’re doing it with love. What more could anyone expect?
The mystery
The difficulties men face when writing about children can also be an excellent opportunity to expose the challenge of being a father and how it challenges ideas and mandates around gender roles. It can be an invitation to ask more questions rather than come up with answers, and to be at peace with this process.
“The mere image of a child playing feels very reassuring: as long as they can play, something is right. It also flips around classic notions of responsibility: how do you bring children into a world like this? That question — whether through a sixties logic or today’s climate change perspective — is very difficult,” said Chilean author Alejandro Zambra in an interview.
“There are no rational answers; there’s something bordering on mystery; fundamentally being a father or mother reconciles us with mystery. When we take on the role of someone who must explain the world — because my child asks many questions — you realize you’re more an emissary of mystery’s persistence than an explainer.”
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Nacho
🙏 Many thanks to Worldcrunch for translating and editing this newsletter.
