Nothing Wrong With Me...

When I meet Malaysians for the first time, one of the first questions I tend to get asked, apart from “what football team do you follow?” is: “Do You Have Any Children”?

This is a somewhat awkward question for me because, for various reasons, I have not yet been blessed with children. However, I have a trump card, in the form of my devilishly handsome stepson, who is named Sanul, or Sunny. So I simply proclaim to my new acquaintances, very proudly, “I have one son. His name is Sunny. He has just graduated from International Islamic University!” So there!

Nevertheless, I have met some locals, especially men, for whom this answer is just not good enough. Some men I have encountered think it of almost mystical strangeness that a man should have anything less than 10 children. Some will bring their sights down to three or four, maybe five. But only one? That’s not right. That’s not natural!

So, on more than one occasion in the coffee shop, mosque or formal function at work, when I tell a male stranger who asks that I have a son, and only one son, I have been treated as if there is something wrong with me. Very politely of course! I have, more times than I can mention, been recommended, with an absolutely straight face, to purchase various natural herbs and drinks and lotions that will put fire in my belly, oil in my loins, and bullets in my rifle. And equally politely, I always nod my head and smile, trying not to show my total embarrassment and sheer anger at having strangers raise the subject of my “masculine health” in this way.

Frankly, it’s nobody’s bloody business whether or not I have one child, no child or twenty! As things stand, I am perfectly happy being a stepfather to my son Sunny. When I married Annie ten years ago, I was aware that she was previously married, and had a son who was then about 13. I didn’t care. I accepted him, and he accepted me. He called me Dad, and I wept for joy, because I felt such unexpected honour at being called Dad by a young man I had hardly met.

Perhaps the main reason why I accepted my stepson is because I in turn am also a stepson. My mother met my stepfather when I was seven. At first, my stepfather didn’t like me very much, and thought I was soft and stupid. But I showed him just how damned soft and stupid I was by getting four degrees, one of them with a Doctor title. Now, of course, my stepfather and I get on like old friends, especially since I met Annie, who insisted I call my stepfather Dad, instead of just John.

So you see, I didn’t want to do to Sunny what my stepfather did to me at first. To me, Sunny is my son, though he looks nothing at all like me and is tall and slim and handsome and dark, unlike me.

So the moral of this little tale is simple. You should love your children, even if they are not formed of your own flesh and blood. You should cherish them, and treat them as your own, regardless of their biological origin. Ultimately, parenthood is about love, and caring and guidance. It is a social and psychological bond which is just as strong as blood. Your children can be of the same blood as you, but if the bond of love and care is absent, then what is there left?

In my case, my real father, despite being of my blood, is just a faded photograph and a name to me. Even the photograph shows him standing a long way from the camera, a tall, slim man with dark hair and an indistinct face. I never had any loving social bond with him, of any kind. He never looked after me, shaped me, saw me through my early years, guided me through university, or bought me a pint in the pub when I turned eighteen!

So I feel some sense of satisfaction now that I have managed to be there for my own “ready-made son”. I have at least helped him through school and university, often sorted him out financially (Oh! The Pain!!) and next month, Annie and I will be going to his graduation in Kuala Lumpur.

And it’ll be Mum, Dad and Son, together against the world. And nobody is going to convince me that there is anything wrong with me again!!