Yikes! Middle age fatherhood
Right now, I’m nursing tendonitis in the knee and the elbow. And possibly the tricep. It’s the holy trinity of tendon fire. (Silver lining: It’s time to start making this website name work for me.)
As a relatively active guy, this shouldn’t concern me too greatly. Some extended R&R frustrating my latent body dysmorphia aside, my day-to-day operational capacity as a functioning human isn’t too severely impacted.
But here’s the kicker: In just two months I’ll be holding a newborn in and on those same inflamed tendons. And I’ll be chasing after and playing with said child until at least my 62nd birthday. Before her 30th birthday, I’ll have entered my seventh decade of life on this spinning third rock from the sun. Hell, I’ll be qualified to join the AARP by Emy’s sixth birthday!
Needless to say, this is freaking me out a little bit.
My mom had me when she was 20. She would go on to have three more boys by her late 20s. And while I’m now fully aware of the economic toll this took on her (at times as a single mom on welfare), and lost social opportunities for her at the time, from a selfish perspective I am so friggin’ grateful that she has been (and should be) around for much longer (KNOCK ON WOOD HARD). She’s been fortunate to have a resurgent early retirement, filled with home ownership, international travel, pickleball tournaments, a fulfilling marriage, and, most importantly, a close relationship with each of her children. Let’s just say, she can keep up. (She was here last week helping to paint the nursery and assemble the crib.)
I want this dynamic for me and Emy. I’m aware that no health outcome is guaranteed; I could have had a kiddo at 18 and gone downhill by 30. More importantly, I’m aware that I would have been a horrible father in my 20s. And that’s not mock self-deprecation. I was an insecure man-child, professionally succeeding but emotionally stunted, reveling in rebellious frivolity and self-medication in the form of socially acceptable “Sunday Fundays” and regular “happy” hours. I could barely take care of myself, and when I got my first puppy in my early 30s, I quickly learned I could barely take care of another living being — though I pulled it together for those pouty eyes and floppy ears.
On paper, I have the most to provide my daughter right now, at 44: A “me” who has dedicated himself to self improvement through sobriety, exercise, and therapy. A stable job with good pay and benefits. A partner who has also worked on herself and struck a balance of health of body, mind, and finances.
Why is it then that I can’t shake this fear of older fatherhood? Is it social stigma? Maybe a little, but that doesn’t seem to be my most pressing concern. It seems to be some hardwired fear that I won’t be there for her in the way that I wish to be, and that I feel (hope?) she’ll want me to be. That tendonitis will lead to me wielding a walker in her graduation pics.
That I won’t even get to walk her down the aisle to the man or woman of her dreams.
That I won’t even get to meet that person.
That as the world burns and rages with animosity and climate change, I won’t be here to hold her and protect her in every possible way that I can.
And that truly terrifies me.
NOTE: If you have experience as an older parent (however you define that) I would love to hear from you. This site isn’t based on an algorithm, seeking comments to enhance engagement. I just have genuine interest in advice and camaraderie. Thank you.