Wishing for Ardhanareeswarar: Mothering Through a Father's Absence

My late husband wasn't a hands-on dad. He didn't change diapers, he didn't burp the baby, and he didn't ever attempt to clean or bathe him. While I spent a hazy six months of sleeplessness nursing my newborn, his life went on as always with work and travel. So, when I meet fellow moms who tell me their husbands were—and still are—hands-on with their children, there's obviously a pang I feel in my heart. 

By the time my son, Riaan, was nearing three, my husband was gone, and they had barely any playtime together. I have only one or two random videos of his late father and him playing on the swings and see-saw in our old apartment's park. For the longest time, my child's face would fall when I took him to play gyms and he watched fathers playing with their kids. He would immediately turn around with a heartbroken look on his face and say, "Let's go, maama." 

In those moments, I always wished I could be both sexes at the same time, like Ardhanareeswarar. Whenever I mention that I'm both of his parents now, he says very vehemently, "No, you're not. My father is dead and you don't look like a boy to me." All valid arguments, of course, which is why I attempt to break my back every weekend in play zones doing bumper car rides with him—something I assume his father may have enjoyed indulging him in. 

The guilt that I married a man who died exactly when my child needed him is something that eats me alive every single day. I can never be Riaan's father, however hard I try, and I just hope he doesn't feel the vacuum too much.