If it were up to me, I would have never wanted to visit the Anpanman Museum. The very fact that it’s located in the same building as Fukuoka Asian Art Museum (a place where I used to frequent during my childfree carefree days) hurts my psyche in dark places I don’t wanna explore.

But here I am, at the Anpanman Museum. My third time in two years. Fatigue doesn’t begin to describe it. I don’t think I can be like the Japanese parents, taking long-running videos, clapping alongside the characters, punching the air with such fervent gusto.

During the subway ride to the museum, my son commented, “Today, I want to play at the sand bar, just like when I was four years old.”

A bolt of realisation hit me like electric charges jolting my body. What was a once-is-enough experience for me is a cherished ritual for my son. The memories he had made in his previous trips were so indelible that he not only looked forward to today, but also wanted to plan how to spend his time. If today serves as an opportunity for him to hone his time management skills, then I guess it might be worth his ¥2000 entrance fee.

My daughter stood up the entire time during the Anpanman show, transfixed as if hooked on a drug. It was seldom that I saw her so focussed. Maybe it was worth her entrance fee.

I know what I’m saying is nothing revolutionary, but there comes a point in every parent’s life in which he realises that he has to live vicariously through his kids, regardless of whether he likes it or not. That he must give up his main character energy in order to further the narrative of his children.