Yours, mine, ours - or whose?

If you were a fly on the wall in this household down the road, there's much you would learn of the intricacies of family life - even in a supposedly peaceful, single-child, nuclear unit.

There are so many opinions bandied around about the child's behaviour and his qualities that you'd be forgiven for thinking someone there either had multiple personality disorder or there was a host of illegal immigrants hiding in the woodwork!

It started with this young father who had so looked forward to the arrival of his first born son, anticipating man-to-man talks and outdoor trips, only to behold a squirming bundle of arms and legs with amazing lung power, who showed every sign of becoming a 'cling-on' to his mother.

As the years passed and toddlerhood and then primary school came along, there emerged an introvert who'd rather sit with crayons or a book than kick a ball in the sand or go trekking and camping.

"Your son is going to be a sissy," the no-longer-so-young father declared, absolving himself of all genetic accountability for these weird, unmanly predilections, convinced that there was some alien activity afoot.

The complacent mother, delighted to have a child so devoted to her, obedient and neat and disciplined while all around him classmates went home with scraped knees, torn shirts and lost pencils, preened.

"My son doesn't get into fights," she said, insinuating that he was wiser than countless generations that had gone before, proud that there was a pacifist within her fold.

All set to mould him further, she was amazed when, on the knock of sixteen, the child who'd sweep up the sand he brought in from play and arrange his toys in picture-book array, took to sporting the new, 'in' dishevelled look.

A slouch appeared and a slight sneer at all things orderly. "Your son is a slob!" she declared. "He thinks manliness means messiness! What happened to my child and who is this creature left in his place?"

The visibly ageing father began to perk up after a decade-and-a-half of being outnumbered by the neat and tidy. Dirty sneakers, smelly socks, unmade beds, piles of dirty clothes thrown in corners, muddy footprints across the floor - they were all Picassos to his eyes.

"Despite your mollycoddling of your son, my son is becoming a man!" he declared. The wait had been worth it! A replica of himself stood before him! Now they could greet the great outdoors together!

Last pat

But it was not to be. The last pat had barely left his own back when the father found another newcomer on the scene.

Brash, cocky, over-confident, busy putting Senior in his place, telling him he was wrong before he had said or done anything, only softening the sense of persecution felt by the father by aiming barbs at the mother as well!

Neither of them was safe. The verbal flak fell everywhere, in a crossfire of angry words and surly snarls.

"Where is our son?" they wailed in unison, suddenly speaking the same language after twenty years of living in Babel!

The long ago team re-emerged and there were actual conversations as the disconcerted couple hastily built their defences against the onslaught.

They never knew what would trigger off a barrage against their generation, their competence, their values.

So busy were they protecting themselves from the next attack that they barely noticed when the shells stopped landing around them.

One holiday, a handsome stranger strode into their fold, sure of himself, civil, even thoughtful - on equal terms with the rest of the world and suddenly caring and considerate of them.

Accustomed to fetching and carrying and fending for themselves, it was something new and delightful to have longer and stronger arms and legs get things done in half the time it had taken them.

Happy to leave the 'yours,' the 'mine,' and the 'ours' behind, they now looked at him and asked, "Whose is this wonderful creation?" and at last knew there had been unseen hands at work too.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.