As she's the first to admit, Stephanie Rafanelli wasn't much of a godmother the first time round. So when the 11-year-old son of friends asked her to do the job, it was a chance to redeem herself
Two big regrets often wake me up at 4am in a puddle of cold sweat and self-loathing. One is the murder of my hamster, Maddy. Aged seven, I forgot to feed her for week and the poor rodent starved to death. The other is the shameful neglect of my goddaughter, Mathilda.
Twelve years ago, a close friend from school asked me to be her second child's godparent. We had lost contact over the years: I lived in London (newly single), she was 200 miles away in the countryside (married with kids). It promised to be a bond that would re-cement our schoolgirl friendship. But after an initial honeymoon period of presents and visits, we drifted apart again, through nothing more sinister than the opposing demands of our lives. Now Mathilda is on the brink of teenhood and, doubtless, has no idea who or where her awol godmother is.
I never met my godparents. Their identities are an ongoing mystery. I do have hazy recollections of writing a dutiful "thank you" letter after a birthday gift at the age of six. The presents eventually dried up. Who can blame them? They didn't know me, so they must have felt like nothing more than cash cows.
Godparenting is such a confusing, nebulous duty: a hangover from early Christian protocol that once involved the sponsorship of a child's baptism and ongoing spiritual growth. (Could closer guidance from mine have prevented me from killing Maddy, I wonder?) These days, for the non-devout, it is a job offer with no clear goals, description or manual. We all want to embrace it, but few of us know how. For many, the guiding principle has been reduced to a gifting obligation; when in doubt, throw money at a problem. The Bibles and religious icons once awarded by a sponsor have escalated in scale and gratuitousness to iPods, Nintendos and Wiis. All this can feel a little empty, not to mention awkward, on both sides if there is no pre-existing, deep connection between godparent and child; a kind of gross parody of spiritual mentorship.
Thankfully, I have been given a second chance to redeem myself for past misdemeanours and to reassess my views on godparenting. Milun, the 11-year-old son of my New York-based friends Patrick and Sangeeta, recently requested me as his belatedly appointed godmother – apparently out of the blue and of his own accord.
His parents had nailed a godfather early on but never got around to assigning the role's female incarnation. I met Patrick at university in the 90s at a bar where he DJ'd in Manchester. We bonded over a geeky obsession with rare groove 45s, film noir and obscure Japanese trainers. And when I met her, I loved his petite, fiercely witty Indian girlfriend just as much. Patrick and I became flatmates in our final year. We all hung out together in Manchester, thinking we looked cool, and later in London in our early graduate years.
We lost touch a little after Milun was born, but reconnected, ironically, after they moved to the US a few years ago. I go to New York every few months for work – soon their flat became my second home, and all three of them my stalwart NYC playmates.
I was especially touched by Milun's later-in-life godmother offer. Rather than being appointed by Patrick and Sangeeta, guided by their allegiances and tastes, I had actively been chosen by their son. Oh and naturally, I am very susceptible to flattery, especially when it comes from such a smart kid. On one occasion, at a tapas bar, Patrick, Sangeeta and I spent the early evening debating the pros and cons of Andrew McCarthy's performances in John Hughes movies, while Milun patiently tapped away on his iPhone. By the end of dinner, our sole achievement had been to down two bottles of Rioja, during which time, Milun, he later declared, had knocked out a short story.
For a godmother and godson, Milun and I are pretty well-matched. I guess he feels I'm someone he can relate to. I am a writer; he's great with words. But he's wise enough to want to be a lawyer – and I didn't even teach him that. He is a level-headed, adult-kid, able to deliver dry one-liners that put grownups to shame. His mental age is 19 (he likes to tell airport security it's his real age); my mental age is 24, which, thankfully, still gives me the upper hand. I wish I was half-Indian; he wants to be half-Italian, I suspect.
Every August, I return the clan's hospitality on their summer holiday, with an epic, wine-fuelled lunch – the current record stands at eight hours long – in Italy, where my father is from. It was here that Milun discovered that my dad has a vintage car. Milun's big brown eyes nearly popped out of his head when he heard the engine revving. I am savvy enough to know that this is the real source of his admiration, but happy to bathe in the reflected glory of its headlamps.
Either way, I'm honoured, if not surprised, that anyone considers me a mentor. I smoke an electronic cigarette, I swear too much, I don't have children yet, I'm not rich, I know nothing about video games …
But Patrick and Sangeeta believe that Milun is old enough to decide who his own role models are. The first step to respecting children's individual tastes and preferences is letting them make their own choices. And it's basic psychology for them to trust a person they instinctively like over one who is thrust upon them.
Milun might be on to something. Maybe we should let our kids select their own godparents as a rite of passage, when they know more about who they are and what the world has to offer. We don't all have magic wands – the role of Grimms' fairy godmothers, like those of the Victorian upper classes, was to introduce their charges into "society"– but we do have the benefit of hindsight. We can be confidantes and advisers to help guide kids through the minefield of their teenage and early adult years. Just think how much early advice on dating I could have given Mathilda.
I don't remember what presents my godparents gave me. Maybe I would have done if I'd been able to put faces to their names. But, I think the best gifts we can give our godchildren are our time and new experiences (sorry, Milun, I'm just not a Grand Theft Auto kind of girl).
For my first wand-waving trick, I am thinking of taking my godson on a real life road trip. But it's going to be more clapped-out Fiat Cinquecento than high-speed car chase, and I think we'd better leave out the theft dimension. Still, I'm hoping to be more of a badass godmother (I'm thinking black, lace dress and beret) than a frumpy fairytale version – I look terrible in peach. Thank God that, one day, whatever I do, I will have Milun to get me out of jail.
*Why I chose Stephanie as my godmother*
It's hard to explain why I chose Steph as my godmother. I feel more comfortable with her than with people I've seen more often, and the times I have seen Steph have been very memorable. Last year in Italy she offered me a glass of wine like I was an adult.
I feel I would be more comfortable asking Steph about personal stuff like friends and girls than Anders, my godfather, because I think she's a bit more understanding. Anders is nice and considerate, but he did buy me Grand Theft Auto for my sixth birthday, which my mother wasn't happy about.
I chose Steph by myself. My mum and dad told me that I could choose my godmother as they chose Anders when I was born. I think it's important to be able to choose your godparents. I want to admire and respect the person I choose to give me advice. I'm very happy that my parents picked Anders and I respect and love him very much even though he wasn't my choice. I guess my parents do get some things right.
I think Steph will be a good role model. She has a job that she loves and meets interesting people. My favourite thing of all is that her father is Italian and has a nice car.
Milun Syms Reported by guardian.co.uk 12 hours ago.
Two big regrets often wake me up at 4am in a puddle of cold sweat and self-loathing. One is the murder of my hamster, Maddy. Aged seven, I forgot to feed her for week and the poor rodent starved to death. The other is the shameful neglect of my goddaughter, Mathilda.
Twelve years ago, a close friend from school asked me to be her second child's godparent. We had lost contact over the years: I lived in London (newly single), she was 200 miles away in the countryside (married with kids). It promised to be a bond that would re-cement our schoolgirl friendship. But after an initial honeymoon period of presents and visits, we drifted apart again, through nothing more sinister than the opposing demands of our lives. Now Mathilda is on the brink of teenhood and, doubtless, has no idea who or where her awol godmother is.
I never met my godparents. Their identities are an ongoing mystery. I do have hazy recollections of writing a dutiful "thank you" letter after a birthday gift at the age of six. The presents eventually dried up. Who can blame them? They didn't know me, so they must have felt like nothing more than cash cows.
Godparenting is such a confusing, nebulous duty: a hangover from early Christian protocol that once involved the sponsorship of a child's baptism and ongoing spiritual growth. (Could closer guidance from mine have prevented me from killing Maddy, I wonder?) These days, for the non-devout, it is a job offer with no clear goals, description or manual. We all want to embrace it, but few of us know how. For many, the guiding principle has been reduced to a gifting obligation; when in doubt, throw money at a problem. The Bibles and religious icons once awarded by a sponsor have escalated in scale and gratuitousness to iPods, Nintendos and Wiis. All this can feel a little empty, not to mention awkward, on both sides if there is no pre-existing, deep connection between godparent and child; a kind of gross parody of spiritual mentorship.
Thankfully, I have been given a second chance to redeem myself for past misdemeanours and to reassess my views on godparenting. Milun, the 11-year-old son of my New York-based friends Patrick and Sangeeta, recently requested me as his belatedly appointed godmother – apparently out of the blue and of his own accord.
His parents had nailed a godfather early on but never got around to assigning the role's female incarnation. I met Patrick at university in the 90s at a bar where he DJ'd in Manchester. We bonded over a geeky obsession with rare groove 45s, film noir and obscure Japanese trainers. And when I met her, I loved his petite, fiercely witty Indian girlfriend just as much. Patrick and I became flatmates in our final year. We all hung out together in Manchester, thinking we looked cool, and later in London in our early graduate years.
We lost touch a little after Milun was born, but reconnected, ironically, after they moved to the US a few years ago. I go to New York every few months for work – soon their flat became my second home, and all three of them my stalwart NYC playmates.
I was especially touched by Milun's later-in-life godmother offer. Rather than being appointed by Patrick and Sangeeta, guided by their allegiances and tastes, I had actively been chosen by their son. Oh and naturally, I am very susceptible to flattery, especially when it comes from such a smart kid. On one occasion, at a tapas bar, Patrick, Sangeeta and I spent the early evening debating the pros and cons of Andrew McCarthy's performances in John Hughes movies, while Milun patiently tapped away on his iPhone. By the end of dinner, our sole achievement had been to down two bottles of Rioja, during which time, Milun, he later declared, had knocked out a short story.
For a godmother and godson, Milun and I are pretty well-matched. I guess he feels I'm someone he can relate to. I am a writer; he's great with words. But he's wise enough to want to be a lawyer – and I didn't even teach him that. He is a level-headed, adult-kid, able to deliver dry one-liners that put grownups to shame. His mental age is 19 (he likes to tell airport security it's his real age); my mental age is 24, which, thankfully, still gives me the upper hand. I wish I was half-Indian; he wants to be half-Italian, I suspect.
Every August, I return the clan's hospitality on their summer holiday, with an epic, wine-fuelled lunch – the current record stands at eight hours long – in Italy, where my father is from. It was here that Milun discovered that my dad has a vintage car. Milun's big brown eyes nearly popped out of his head when he heard the engine revving. I am savvy enough to know that this is the real source of his admiration, but happy to bathe in the reflected glory of its headlamps.
Either way, I'm honoured, if not surprised, that anyone considers me a mentor. I smoke an electronic cigarette, I swear too much, I don't have children yet, I'm not rich, I know nothing about video games …
But Patrick and Sangeeta believe that Milun is old enough to decide who his own role models are. The first step to respecting children's individual tastes and preferences is letting them make their own choices. And it's basic psychology for them to trust a person they instinctively like over one who is thrust upon them.
Milun might be on to something. Maybe we should let our kids select their own godparents as a rite of passage, when they know more about who they are and what the world has to offer. We don't all have magic wands – the role of Grimms' fairy godmothers, like those of the Victorian upper classes, was to introduce their charges into "society"– but we do have the benefit of hindsight. We can be confidantes and advisers to help guide kids through the minefield of their teenage and early adult years. Just think how much early advice on dating I could have given Mathilda.
I don't remember what presents my godparents gave me. Maybe I would have done if I'd been able to put faces to their names. But, I think the best gifts we can give our godchildren are our time and new experiences (sorry, Milun, I'm just not a Grand Theft Auto kind of girl).
For my first wand-waving trick, I am thinking of taking my godson on a real life road trip. But it's going to be more clapped-out Fiat Cinquecento than high-speed car chase, and I think we'd better leave out the theft dimension. Still, I'm hoping to be more of a badass godmother (I'm thinking black, lace dress and beret) than a frumpy fairytale version – I look terrible in peach. Thank God that, one day, whatever I do, I will have Milun to get me out of jail.
*Why I chose Stephanie as my godmother*
It's hard to explain why I chose Steph as my godmother. I feel more comfortable with her than with people I've seen more often, and the times I have seen Steph have been very memorable. Last year in Italy she offered me a glass of wine like I was an adult.
I feel I would be more comfortable asking Steph about personal stuff like friends and girls than Anders, my godfather, because I think she's a bit more understanding. Anders is nice and considerate, but he did buy me Grand Theft Auto for my sixth birthday, which my mother wasn't happy about.
I chose Steph by myself. My mum and dad told me that I could choose my godmother as they chose Anders when I was born. I think it's important to be able to choose your godparents. I want to admire and respect the person I choose to give me advice. I'm very happy that my parents picked Anders and I respect and love him very much even though he wasn't my choice. I guess my parents do get some things right.
I think Steph will be a good role model. She has a job that she loves and meets interesting people. My favourite thing of all is that her father is Italian and has a nice car.
Milun Syms Reported by guardian.co.uk 12 hours ago.