Six Degrees of Parenting

As we turn around yet another birthday — that annual reminder that time is undefeated and cake is the only socially acceptable coping mechanism — we pause. We observe. We ponder. We zoom into old photos to see if we were actually thinner or just happier. We ask profound questions like: What stage of life have I crossed? And who finished the ice cream?

For most parents, however, birthdays are not about candles. They are about calculations. Not financial (though those hurt too), but emotional arithmetic. Regardless of whether it is your birthday, your child’s birthday, or your child’s child’s birthday — parenting comes in six degrees.

First Degree: The Crying Baby Gets the Milk

This is the most honest stage of life. A baby cries. Milk appears. The universe functions on direct supply and demand. No LinkedIn, no networking, no “circle back on that.” Just primal clarity.

The crying baby gets the milk.

Extend this metaphor and you will find it underpins the adult world as well. The loudest employee gets the promotion. The squeakiest relative gets the inheritance discussion. The most dramatic sibling gets the property. The one who says, “I don’t want anything,” gets… exactly that.

Parenthood in this stage is simple but exhausting. You are a 24/7 vending machine with feelings. You operate on two currencies: sleep deprivation and unconditional love. The baby cries for milk. Then for burping. Then for diaper change. Then because the ceiling fan looked at them funny.

You tell yourself, This is temporary.

You do not yet know that parenting never becomes less exhausting — it merely changes departments.

In this stage, you are the provider, the protector, the emotional Wi-Fi router. You are needed. Worshipped. Clung to like a life raft.

It is beautiful. It is brutal. It is the only time in life when someone screams in your face and you call it adorable.

Second Degree: Annoyance (Also Known As “What Were We Thinking?”)

This stage arrives quietly — usually around the time the second child is born, or when the first one discovers the word “No.”

Annoyance sets in. Or remorse. Sometimes both.

You look at your partner across the chaos and think, We did this voluntarily.

You recall the Instagram posts about “complete family.” You now suspect those parents have hired help, ring lights, and mild sedation.

The sole giver in this stage is usually the mother. She becomes logistics manager, nutritionist, referee, moral compass, homework auditor and emotional shock absorber. Fathers may participate heroically, but society still looks at the mother if the child sneezes incorrectly.

Single parents? Saints walking among us. 

Regardless of gender. Because they handle both the milk and the meltdown, without applause.

This stage is where you briefly fantasise about a quiet monastery in the Himalayas. Not forever. Just a weekend.

You love your children fiercely. But you also google “boarding school age minimum.”

This is also when you begin to understand that parenting is not raising children — it is raising your blood pressure.

Third Degree: Comparison (Uski Saadi Meri Saadi Syndrome)

Enter the era of comparison. It begins innocently.

“What school are you sending Abhay to?”
“Oh, that school? We were considering it… but we wanted IB.”

And thus begins the holy trinity of modern anxiety: Schooling. Academics. Marks.

Which leads to the second trinity: Success. Fame. Wealth.

Comparison is the national sport of parenting. It is inherited, cultivated, and passed down like heirloom jewellery — only less valuable.

Remember the old Surf detergent advertisement with the timeless Lalitha Ji crooning : “Uski saadi meri saadi se safed kaise?” That energy never left India. It just moved to WhatsApp groups and parent-teacher meetings.

“My daughter is learning French.”
“My son is coding.”
“My child is learning mindfulness.”
“My toddler is emotionally available.”

Comparison does not restrict itself to children. It expands.

Bedrooms. Sofas. Cars. Vacation destinations.
Who is jet-setting and who is just setting the table.

Social media has industrialised comparison. We scroll through curated perfection and feel vaguely inadequate while sitting in pyjamas that have survived three generations.

But here’s the twist — our parents compared us too. And their parents before them. The medium changed; the insecurity did not.

You begin to measure your parenting by report cards and piano recitals. You forget that childhood is not a resume-building workshop.

Yet you participate. Because if everyone else is running, standing still feels like failure.

Fourth Degree: Abandonment (Now Streaming in HD)

This is the stage where your children discover adulthood, independence, and Google.

You are now officially “forwarded (or forwarding) message material.”

Your opinions are outdated before you finish the sentence.

You say, “In our time—”
They say, “Exactly.”

They begin sentences with, “You won’t understand,” which is fascinating, because you understand EMIs, childbirth without epidural, joint family politics, and raising them without YouTube tutorials.

But sure. You won’t understand.

They no longer need you for survival. They need you for (in no particular order): Emergency fund transfers, Storage space, Occasional emotional backup, snd the future reading of your will

Conversations subtly shift.

“Have you done estate planning?”
“What are your long-term arrangements?”

“Are Samar’s parents rich? I wish I could be a DJ like him”.
“Just asking casually…”

Casually.

Your life’s work — decades of sacrifice, missed vacations, and buying sensible furniture — is now a projected spreadsheet.

And the irony?

Some of them have not yet produced consistent digits on their own paycheques, but the confidence with which they discuss your assets is inspirational.

You become background infrastructure. Like Wi-Fi.

Invisible. Essential. Under appreciated.

And yes, parents feel this.

But do they say it?

No.

They nod. Smile. Offer tea.

Because God forbid we appear “emotionally needy.” We were only emotionally available for 25 years. Let’s not get dramatic now.

Inside, though? That’s a story for another time.

There’s a small, demure voice whispering “ if only…..”

Fifth Degree: On-Demand Parenthood 2.0

And then — plot twist — they need you again.

Not for wisdom.

For labour. For pets. Kids, partners, in-laws, and life In general.

“Mom, can you come stay for a month?”
“Can you please take Cookie to the vet today. He seems to be having a toothache.”
“Dad, can you handle daycare pickup?”
“We just need support. It’s so hard.”

Oh.

Now it’s hard.

Interesting.

This is the stage where your retired knees become full-time again. Your back re-enters service. Your sleep schedule is once more negotiable.

You are suddenly invaluable — but only within defined utility hours.

Your advice? Optional.
Your availability? Mandatory.

If you say yes, it’s normal.
If you say no, it’s “Wow. Okay.”

The emotional blackmail is subtle. Elegant.

“We just thought… since you’re free.”

Free.

That word. That violent word.

As though aging automatically converts you into public property.

And parents? They feel the sting.

They feel when they are being used more than included.

They feel when gratitude is replaced by expectation.

But they won’t say it.

Because holding your grandchild (or Cookie) melts most resistance. Biology (and love) is manipulative like that.

Still, somewhere between diaper number three and reheated tea number four, a thought floats by:

“I raised you. I did not sign up for Season Two.”

They love it. They resent it. They show up anyway.

Because parenting, unfortunately, does not offer early retirement.

Sixth Degree: Role Reversal (The Child State of the Parent)

And then — gently or abruptly — the axis shifts.

You begin to forget small things. Names. Directions. Where you kept your glasses (on your head).

You become restless, arrogant, annoying, or distant. And sometimes all of them.

Your children notice.

They become attentive. Concerned. Slightly controlling.

“Did you take your medicine?”
“Why are you sleeping so much?”
“You didn’t eat properly.”
“Don’t drive at night.”

A sneeze becomes a medical conference. A nap becomes a diagnosis. A misplaced word becomes a search engine query.

Alzheimer’s. Blood pressure. Sugar levels. Bone density.

You are studied. Monitored.

You, who once measured their height against a wall, are now measured for stability.

It is humbling.

Sometimes irritating.

Sometimes comforting.

You resist. You assert independence. They insist.

The child becomes the parent. The circle closes.

You realise that parenting never ends. It mutates.

In this stage, love becomes quieter. Softer. Less dramatic than crying babies and school admissions. But deeper.

You may not remember everything. But you remember their faces.

And they remember ( you hope) that once, you stayed awake all night for them.

Epilogue: The Seventh Degree (Unspoken)
And a BONUS for having stayed so far

Though we speak of six degrees, there is a silent seventh — acceptance.

You accept that parenting is not a linear journey. It is a loop. A comedy of control and surrender.

You start by feeding them.
You end by being fed.

You start by teaching them to walk.
You end by holding their arm for balance.

In between lies annoyance, comparison, ego, sacrifice, babysitting, pride, heartbreak, WhatsApp forwards, report cards, and birthday cakes.

So when another birthday arrives — yours or theirs — you pause.

Not to count candles.

But to count chapters.

And perhaps to whisper to the universe:

“Next year, can we just skip to the peaceful part?”

The universe laughs.

Parenting, after all, has no shortcuts. Only stages. And cake.

Always cake.