About 11 years ago, my wife and I joined another pregnant couple for a snack after our pre-natal class. They were a typical demographic of this class… young, bright-eyed and fresh, unwrinkled, unworn and eager to learn what lay ahead in parenthood. Their youth and enthusiasm unnerved me because I was then 49 years-old and facing fatherhood for the first time. I ordered coffee and cherry pie a la mode.
Weeks earlier on the first night of our pre-natal class, before I had even looked at the class instructor, I’d quickly checked out the 20 or so other couples in attendance and easily determined I was the oldest man there. So, despite the fact that my wife tells me I look 10 years younger than my age and I think of myself as an active and hip dude, I felt old, out of place, a trespasser on this chatter of children soon to give birth to children.
Somehow, innocently, the conversation turned to age. The couple announced they were in their 20s, working on some dot.com pipe dream, and how the future was bright with fortune and family. My then-37 year-old wife responded with a comment about the dampening of her ticking clock, and then everyone casually looked at me, naturally.
Now, in a normal course of light and polite conversation, I would pick up the thread and express my take on any situation. But I didn’t feel normal that night. I was suddenly intensely self-conscious and embarrassed at being such a Methuselah. Wishing to avoid confronting the truth, I looked down into my pie for something to say. The slick red dye of the cherry pie filling looked garish and artificial in the diner’s bright light… exactly how I felt.
My wife must have said something to start time moving again, but I don’t remember. What I do recall, vividly, is the sinking feeling of being struck dumb and sabotaged by my own stinking thinking that I was too old for fatherhood. I was astonished by my sudden fear of letting others know my true age, and at how deeply this issue affected me. I realized, as though I just discovered a nail stuck in my car’s tire, that if forward progress were to proceed, I needed to do something about it soon.
I didn’t immediately share my feelings with Lucy or anyone else. I’m old school in that respect. At the first whiff of a problem, Lucy reflexively phones friends, family, confidants and guiding influences to air and sort out her feelings. On the opposite end of the share-your-pain spectrum, I tend to work through my issues myself, mulling them over, exploring their importance, and figuring out ways to avoid and ignore them. Seeking the advice and support of others is only done as a last resort.
So, as the California sun shone bright the next day and I headed off to work managing a high technology communications agency, I instinctively followed my habitual path of problem solving by refocusing on the day to day realities of managing my staff, developing competitive strategies, and collecting invoices. I buried those niggling thoughts about being too old for fatherhood. I whistled past the graveyard, but this particular zombie refused to stay interred and continued to stalk and spook me.
What was it that really bothered me? Deep down inside I was tickled pink at the prospect of fatherhood, even so much later in life. I’d always wanted my own family, had enjoyed my role as uncle to nephews and niece, and all my close childhood friends were fathers and even grandfathers. I felt fairly competent and optimistic about handling the responsibilities of fatherhood as I understood them at the time. Sure, I was older than any other expectant dad I’d met, but my friends, family and in-laws were all supportive and congratulatory. I was healthy, had some money in the bank, and knew my wife would make a great mother.
So what was it? Why was I so bothered about what others might think of my age? Mulling it over revealed a variety of reasons. Sure, I was worried about feeling different, some kind of freak, of being ostracized and embarrassed. But these are petty concerns, more appropriate for teenagers than a 50 year-old man.
Slowly, the ugly truth slowly reared its hoary head: I did not want to be mistaken for the grandfather.
There it was, as pathetic as Grandpa Simpson drooling out his false teeth, snoozing in a misshapen Lazy-Boy while a hemorrhoid commercial blares too loud on the TV next to his walker. I did not want to be mistaken for grandpa! Vanity invites insanity.
Then one day several years back, I experienced the psychological breakthrough that provided healing insight into my age issue. We invited two other couples and their children over for a cookout. During the course of the evening, all the kids followed my then three-year-old son’s lead of stripping off his clothes and running wild and naked around the house and yard strumming a toy guitar.
The kids were squealing with joy, having a riot. I was a bit concerned that some of our parent guests might object to this permissive nudist romp, so I asked gently if everything was okay.
One of the young moms, barely 30 years-old at the time, gave me a genuine, reassuring smile and said, “We just love coming to your house. It’s like Woodstock!”
Wow. Her words warmed me like hot chocolate on the ski slope. This wonderful woman was not even alive when Woodstock surprised the world. Yet her reference reminded me that we parents, regardless of our external differences, share a common bond that deeply unites us.
We pull together as kindred spirits while roaming through this parenthood festival, sharing our celebrations and making the best of things, whether “the New York State Thruway is closed, man,” or we’re dancing in the sunlight or slogging through the rain and mud.
In just a few brief moments of reflection on her kind, inclusive words, I happily experienced the healing transformation of feeling fully accepted.
I realized that not one of my younger parent friends had ever discriminated against me because of my age. They’d always accepted me and treated me as an equal, just another new dad, fumbling around, back aching, trying to figure out how to do what’s best for the children.
All my fears of being perceived as a dozing, drooling Grandpa Simpson had been unfounded… nagging phantoms inside my own crazy head. I’d tortured myself by comparing my insides to younger parents’ externals. I had been my own worst enemy. I was the ageist!
What a revelation. This mature, former citizen of the Woodstock Nation (now finding refuge in the Colbert Nation) finally realized he was diminishing his own enjoyment of fatherhood by worrying about age. I now openly and honestly discuss the issue when occasions arise. Interesting conversations ensue. A 33-year-old father of two recently confided to me that he secretly felt too young for fatherhood.
I’ve come to understand that my fears about being outside the norm resulted from my own lack of acceptance of myself as a later blooming dad. It’s an inside job. No one else seems to care. I decided to seize the daze and focus on being a doting, not doddering, dad.
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Len Filppu is a writer/screenwriter who’s worked as a communications executive in Silicon Valley, served as a press secretary to Jimmy Carter and on Capitol Hill, and helped produce a low budget horror movie. But the best thing he ever did was become a first-time father in midlife. Watch for his forthcoming book, “PRIME TIME DADS: 45 Reasons to Embrace Midlife Fatherhood” (www.primetimedads.com) and follow him at www.huffingtonpost.com/Len-Filppu and at www.twitter.com/MidlifeDad.