As the parent of a one-week old, which is to say I haven't slept in seven days, I got to talking with a fellow parent - a mother - about why we put ourselves through this.
I told her I gaze at this child, my third, and see two things. One, the purpose of life. Two, the utter, absolute loss of any hope of personal freedom.I mean, I can now forget impulsive weekend escapes, am facing years of discolored marks on my suitjacket shoulders, and Spaghettios for dinner. Until sometime next century, I doubt I'll be allowed to complete a whole English sentence with my wife without being interrupted. And I'll probably spend an hour a day over the next decade searching behind radiators for lost security blankets.
The fellow parent - who happened to be 50ish with kids in college - told me not to fret. Then she offered a three-part overview of how the world works for those with children:
The first block of life, until young adulthood, is for personal freedom. The next 25 years is for raising kids. And then, she said, you get another vibrant 25 years of freedom afterward - when you're mature enough, but still young enough - to truly enjoy it. It's kind of the final, rich payoff for launching the next generation.
For a moment, it made me feel better. Then I did some quick math. Sorry, it won't happen. See, I'm part of a new phenomenon almost nonexistent 20 years ago but prevalent now . . . I'm an old parent.
My own parents were mostly finished having kids in their late 20s. Me? I just had my third child at . . . drum roll here . . . almost 41.
That means that once my baby is out of college and squared away, at last giving me my final 25 years of freedom, I'm going to be in my mid- to late 60s.
Great. I can see the certificate now. "This official block of freedom is given to Mark Patinkin in appreciation for launching the next generation. You may now feel free to live it up between age 66 and 91."
Thanks. Sounds like a real gas.
Admittedly, old parents are common these days, but I often find myself in playgrounds and child-classes as the senior adult with a handful of mothers young enough to be my daughters. Every now and then, I'll catch one glancing my way with a sympathetic stare, as in: "Jeez, do you believe how old that poor child's father is? Sad. Bet he can't even get down on those rickety knees and play."
As a matter of fact I can, though I prefer doing it with knee pads on. And I make sure to take three Advil beforehand for joint inflammation. Once, I got so defensive about my senior status during an evening playground stop that I climbed the steps of a corkscrew slide, put my 2-year-old on my lap and headed down in my gray-pinstripes. Unfortunately, I judged the end badly and landed on my fanny. Not a dignified thing for a 40-year-old.
There are other indignities of old parenthood that I barely notice anymore. Like how - at 40 - I snack on Teddy Grahams, throw out my back while hoisting kids into their car seats, and am into watching snippets of "Kellyn" doing "Mousercising" each morning on the Disney Channel. Not to mention being caught by colleagues while I sing "Four more monkeys jumping on the bed . . ." - even as my hair grows increasingly gray.
Anyway, I have to go; it's "changing" time again. Don't snicker, all you fortysomething types with older kids - it happens every 60 minutes or so at this phase. My dream at the moment is that Zach - my week-old - will let us sleep more than two hours at a time tonight. I doubt it. It'll be his call and he knows it.
But first, time to get those kneepads on for horsie and find some Spaghettios for dinner.
By the way, a thought just occurred to me: Maybe we should consider having a fourth child.
That's the thing about old parents; zero learning curve.