PARENTING GUIDE FOR THE WORKING COUPLES
- Madhukar Dama
- 11 hours ago
- 10 min read
Yes — this is one of the most painfully common realities of modern life. Here's a full breakdown of how and why working couples are often unable to care for their children, what damage it causes, and how it can be addressed.
WORKING COUPLES ARE UNABLE TO TAKE CARE OF THEIR CHILDREN
A social, emotional, developmental, and spiritual breakdown — hidden in plain sight
1. THE CORE CONTRADICTION
Modern couples are told to:
Build two strong careers
Earn enough for a “secure future”
Provide the best for their children
Also raise “independent, emotionally healthy kids”
But all four cannot coexist.
When both parents work full-time, something will break — and it’s usually the child’s needs, voice, or spirit.
2. WHAT CHILDREN ACTUALLY NEED
Children don’t need gadgets, toys, tuitions, or international schools.
They need:
Time-rich parents
Touch, eye contact, and co-regulation
Freedom to express without fear
Observation, not control
Nurturing through presence, not performance
When both parents leave at 9 am and return at 8 pm, these basics disappear — even if there’s a maid, a nanny, a grandparent, or an iPad.
3. THE HIDDEN SYMPTOMS IN CHILDREN
Children of working couples often show:
Clinginess or emotional shutdown
Addiction to screens, sugar, or junk
Poor focus, poor sleep, and gut issues
Over-performance in academics or complete disinterest
Anxiety, tantrums, and identity confusion
Deep loneliness masked by external politeness
And the worst part?
These children often blame themselves for their parents’ absence.
4. EXCUSES PARENTS TELL THEMSELVES
“We’re doing this for their future.”
“We spend weekends together.”
“Quality time matters more than quantity.”
“They need to be independent.”
“We didn’t have anything growing up — they will.”
“Everyone does this. It’s normal.”
But children don’t hear these lines.
They only feel one thing: “I am not worth your time.”
5. WHO IS ACTUALLY RAISING YOUR CHILD?
In most double-income homes, the child is raised by:
A stressed maid who hates the job
Grandparents who may love but cannot understand
Teachers who are underpaid and overwhelmed
Tutors who don’t care
A screen
Or worse — by no one at all
Even when both parents return home, they’re often tired, irritable, and distracted. The child learns to stop expressing needs, and becomes externally obedient, internally broken.
6. THE COST IS PERMANENT
Emotional starvation
Dependency on external validation
Difficulty forming healthy relationships later
Identity built on performance, not presence
Guilt, insecurity, and suppressed rage
This child grows up into the same adult — working hard, disconnected, and raising another wounded child.
7. BUT WHAT ABOUT FINANCIAL REALITY?
Yes, in many families, both partners must work to survive.
But in many more cases, both work to sustain an inflated lifestyle:
EMI for a 3BHK
Branded clothes
International school fees
Vacations
Restaurant meals
Uber rides
Netflix, Amazon, gadgets
This is not survival. This is middle-class greed masked as necessity.
8. WHAT YOU CAN DO DIFFERENTLY
Radically downsize your lifestyle.
Live in a smaller home. Cook simple meals. Say no to excess.
Let one parent stay home — at least during early childhood.
Switch to remote or part-time work.
Even a few extra hours at home can save a child’s sense of safety.
Rebuild your family rhythm.
Wake early, eat together, do chores with children, read aloud, walk together.
Stop outsourcing care.
No teacher, app, therapist, or grandparent can replace you.
Let go of fear-based parenting.
You don’t need to “secure their future.”
You need to secure their present.
9. EXAMPLES OF HEALING
Families who moved to smaller towns, took pay cuts, but saw their children bloom.
Parents who chose homeschooling and lived simply on one income.
Fathers who quit their jobs to raise emotionally healthy sons.
Mothers who said no to "back to work pressure" and chose presence over prestige.
Couples who rejected modern schooling and returned to ancestral land.
These children are not just healthy — they are joyful, grounded, and alive.
10. CONCLUSION: PRESENCE IS NOT A LUXURY — IT’S THE FOUNDATION
You had children.
They did not ask to be born.
They did not ask for cars, schools, AC rooms, or toys.
They only asked for you.
So if you’re too busy building a “life” to see the life in front of you —
Stop.
Let your child raise you.
Before it’s too late.
Before your child stops waiting.
---
---
“IT'S NOT THEIR SCHOOL THAT'S FAILING — IT'S US”
A healing dialogue between Madhukar and a working couple, Reema and Karan, who are struggling to understand why their children are withdrawn, clingy, and increasingly silent.
Characters:
Reema (38): Works as a manager in a private firm. Exhausted, self-critical, believes she’s doing her best.
Karan (41): IT professional. Commutes 2 hours daily. Feels responsible, but emotionally distant.
Their children: One daughter (9) and one son (6). Increasingly dependent on screens, both showing signs of emotional withdrawal.
Madhukar (43): A former scientist, now a forest-dwelling father who lives simply with his wife Savitri and daughters Adhya and Anju near Yelmadagi.
(The couple arrives at Madhukar’s off-grid forest home, looking tired. They sit on a bench under a tamarind tree. Birds chirp. Reema clutches her bag tightly. Karan keeps glancing at his phone until he finally switches it off.)
Reema:
Our daughter has stopped talking to us.
She clings to her stuffed toy and says “nothing” even when we ask what’s wrong.
Karan:
Our son stares at screens all day.
He throws tantrums when we try to talk or take it away.
We’re trying everything — school, therapy, activities, healthy food… but nothing seems to be working.
Madhukar:
And when do you sit with them?
Reema:
We try. At night. After dinner.
But we’re tired too… and they’re usually already distracted by something.
Madhukar (softly):
So they’ve learned to live without you.
Karan:
That’s harsh.
We work to give them the best — education, safety, opportunities.
Madhukar:
They never asked for that.
They asked for you.
Your eyes. Your presence. Your laugh.
Not your exhausted shadow.
Reema (tears welling up):
So what are we supposed to do?
Quit our jobs? We have EMIs. Rent. School fees.
We can't just stop everything.
Madhukar:
No one said stop everything.
But start seeing what you’ve already stopped.
You’ve stopped sitting beside them without a task.
You’ve stopped looking into their eyes long enough to notice their mood.
You’ve stopped walking barefoot with them after rain.
You’ve stopped being human in front of them — now you’re just busy.
Karan:
We thought quality time mattered more than quantity.
Madhukar:
That’s an idea sold by people who want your time.
Children don’t schedule love. They breathe it.
They need to see you when they feel something — not after a Zoom call.
Reema (whispers):
I think… I haven’t hugged my daughter properly in a week.
Karan:
When our son says “Will you sit with me?”
I say, “Let me finish this mail.”
And by the time I’m done… he’s asleep.
He used to wait.
Now… he doesn’t.
Madhukar:
That’s how silence begins in children.
First they ask.
Then they wait.
Then they stop asking.
Then one day, they forget what they even wanted.
Reema (crying now):
Are we too late?
Madhukar:
Not at all.
But you must act now. Not later.
They won’t tell you when they break.
They’ll just quietly shift away… and one day, you won’t know how to reach them.
Karan:
But how do we begin again?
Madhukar:
One hour.
Every single day.
Phones off. No agenda.
Sit on the floor with them. Let them show you a drawing. Tell you a story.
Just sit. Just be.
And after a few weeks, the silence will start to melt.
Reema:
What if we can’t do it all?
Madhukar:
Don’t.
Do less.
Lower the expectations. Lower your income. Lower your lifestyle.
And raise your children.
Because if you don’t raise them,
Someone else will.
And they won’t raise them — they’ll program them.
Karan (nodding slowly):
So it’s not their school that’s failing.
It’s us.
Madhukar (placing a hand on his shoulder):
It’s not failure.
It’s forgetting.
And you can remember.
Children forgive fast — but only if you return before they close the door.
(Reema walks toward Adhya and Anju, who are drawing shapes in the mud. She kneels beside them. Karan watches her, breathing slower than before. The forest is quiet. Healing has already begun.)
THE END
12-MONTH FOLLOW-UP TO: “IT'S NOT THEIR SCHOOL THAT'S FAILING — IT'S US”
A gentle timeline of transformation in a working couple’s home, where love returns not through effort, but through presence.
MONTH 1 — THE PHONE GOES OFF
Reema and Karan begin turning off their phones for one hour each evening.
At first, it’s awkward.
They sit with their kids, unsure what to say.
Their daughter keeps drawing in silence.
Their son keeps glancing at the screen.
But the parents stay.
No agenda. No lecture. Just presence.
The silence begins to crack.
MONTH 2 — DINNER ON THE FLOOR
They bring their dinner down to the floor, picnic-style.
Plates on banana leaves. Lights dimmed. No TV.
Their daughter giggles when dal drips on her foot.
Their son starts mimicking animals while eating.
Laughter becomes a daily visitor.
MONTH 3 — THE WALK RETURNS
Evening walks begin — short and clumsy.
No destination. No stroller.
Barefoot sometimes.
Their daughter finds a feather.
Their son asks questions.
Karan doesn’t Google the answer. He wonders with him.
MONTH 4 — A ROOM IS EMPTIED
They sell unused furniture.
Cancel an EMI.
Turn one room into a play-den.
Reema sets up a reading corner with hand-me-downs.
The kids now wait for their parents to come home —
not to perform, but to just be.
MONTH 5 — SCHOOL COMPLAINTS REDUCE
The teacher calls and says, “Your daughter is more expressive now.”
She’s not scoring higher —
but she smiles more.
The son shares crayons instead of throwing them.
It’s not academic excellence.
It’s nervous systems calming down.
MONTH 6 — THE KITCHEN SLOWS DOWN
They stop ordering food.
Begin cooking together.
The children wash vegetables.
They mash bananas for dosa.
One meal takes two hours.
And the family digests it…
emotionally too.
MONTH 7 — INCOME DROPS, JOY RISES
Karan switches to part-time consulting.
Reema moves to a hybrid role.
They lose 40% of their income.
But nothing important is lost.
They gain 100% of their family.
The children begin drawing pictures… with all four of them in it.
MONTH 8 — SUNDAYS WITHOUT PLANS
No malls. No brunches. No traffic.
Just tree climbing, hammock swinging, seed collecting.
Their daughter picks up a caterpillar.
Their son sits quietly, observing ants.
The parents sit beside them — no rush.
Just four lives in rhythm again.
MONTH 9 — SCREENS RETREAT
Screens are no longer babysitters.
They rest on shelves, dusty.
The children now choose puzzles, mud, cloth scraps.
Reema stitches dolls with her daughter.
Karan builds a clay stove with his son.
The family begins crafting memories, not consuming them.
MONTH 10 — SICKNESS FADES
No more unexplained fevers.
No more early morning stomachaches.
Sleep is deeper.
Tantrums are fewer.
No therapist.
Just togetherness.
Love is the medicine they were missing.
MONTH 11 — THE APOLOGY
One evening, Reema looks her daughter in the eye and says:
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”
Her daughter hugs her silently.
The son hears and comes running too.
Karan joins.
They don’t cry.
They just breathe together —
something they had forgotten to do for years.
MONTH 12 — A DIFFERENT FAMILY
Visitors say, “Your children have changed.”
But the truth is — the parents changed.
The pace changed.
The home changed.
Now there’s rhythm.
There’s rest.
There’s repair.
And most importantly —
there’s room for the children to be exactly who they are.
FINAL SCENE
At night, the daughter says,
“Will you lie down with me till I sleep?”
Reema says, “Always.”
No guilt. No rush. No performance.
Only presence.
And the house is finally alive again.
---
---
For every working couple who tried to buy peace for their children by selling their presence.
YOU HAD A CHILD AND GAVE THEM A PHONE
you didn’t have children.
you had dependents.
you had side-projects.
you had photos for Instagram.
you had backup dancers for your emptiness.
you had the courage to breed
but not to be there.
you rushed through pregnancy
rushed through birth
rushed back to work
rushed to pump breastmilk
rushed to hire the maid
rushed to show the world:
“look, I didn’t pause for motherhood.”
you say,
“we’re doing it for them.”
but who told you
they needed
an SUV,
a villa with 3 balconies,
air conditioning in every room,
and tuition for 4-year-olds?
who told you
that absence could be made holy
by a credit card?
your daughter doesn’t need
a new iPad.
she needs your lap.
your son doesn’t need
a coding camp.
he needs your silence.
your slowness.
your stupid songs.
your unfinished stories.
but instead,
you gave them a chair with a nanny.
a schedule with no space.
a love that only arrived
after dinner and emails.
and when the child asked:
“will you play with me?”
you said,
“give me 10 minutes.”
and 10 years passed.
the child cried at bedtime.
you handed her a cartoon.
the child screamed in confusion.
you called it tantrum.
and hired a therapist.
the child failed to focus.
you blamed the school.
but it wasn’t the screen.
or the teacher.
or the sugar.
or the school.
it was you.
you weren’t there.
you were busy becoming “someone.”
but your child already thought
you were someone.
until you vanished
behind Google Calendar
and Sunday guilt trips.
you asked:
“what’s wrong with her?”
but never asked
“what happened to her… when I wasn’t looking?”
you filled the house
with things.
but the soul of the house
left with the first maid
who saw your child cry
and looked away.
you told yourself
“quality time matters.”
but time has no quality
when the child sees your eyes
and they’re full of exhaustion,
not love.
and the child?
she stopped asking.
she stopped waiting.
she stopped needing.
and one day
she’ll stop returning.
not with drama.
with politeness.
like you raised her to be.
polite. silent.
a clean, broken ghost.
but there is a way.
not in books.
not in apps.
not in rewards or schedules.
there is a way:
unplug the machine.
go home early.
lie on the floor.
take off the mask.
tell your child
“I’m sorry.”
cook dinner.
eat with your hands.
let the child spill.
sit with her through it.
listen to that nonsense story.
not because it’s important.
but because she is.
take a walk.
pick up a leaf.
feel stupid again.
because the wise ones
live in the dust,
not in your KPIs.
your job won’t remember you.
your boss won’t cry at your funeral.
but your child…
she will remember
that one evening
you came home early
without reason
and sat beside her
without your phone.
she will remember
how the light hit your face
when you listened
without fixing.
how the room
finally stopped spinning.
how she belonged.
how she mattered.
and one year later
she’ll tell you
she’s okay now.
she’ll smile like
a tree that got water
just in time.
your son will hold your hand again.
your silence will stop hurting.
your home will sound
like breath, not electricity.
you’ll have less money.
fewer things.
but more soul.
more sleep.
more sky.
more truth.
and you’ll realize:
you never had to work so hard
to give your child the world.
you just had to
come home
and give them
yourself.
