In the usual park playground etiquette for men accompanying kids, men don’t talk to other men. We might nod to one another as we each stand watch around the playground equipment to say, “Yes, I see you fellow man at the playground,” but we usually don’t converse. It’s a quiet elevator among dads and grandpas at the park. One man, though, broke through the usual man-silence. I’d seen him before. He’s a guy in his 60’s. His workday HVAC repairman uniform was still on, even in the evening, and he accompanied his granddaughter who is close to my son’s age. As my son and his granddaughter played on the slide, the man stood next to me and asked, “How many other grandkids do you have?”

He wasn’t the first to assume I was the grandpa and not the dad. It would take more than a couple sets of fingers and toes to count all who’ve made the same guess. I don’t get too bothered about it, though. My gray hair and lines in my face say I’m not the youngest dad in the pickup line at school. Some may not assume that I’m two generations removed from my son, but they wonder. My son and I were visiting our local Episcopal Cathedral for their pre-holiday bazaar, and one of the priests kindly showed us all the secret cathedral spots my son wanted to explore. After a bit of talking, the priest asked with uncertainty, “You’re his dad?” I nodded, understanding his hesitancy, and said, “Yes.”

I was 46 when we brought our son home from the hospital. That's the age when dads might be taking college visit trips with their kids, and I was learning to change a diaper. Many times when I’m now five years into this dad journey, I often wonder if parenting is a younger person’s game. I remember in my 20’s staying up late to watch David Letterman and showing up to work on five hours of sleep, and I was still able to function. A couple weeks into less than optimal sleep with my new son, and I was not in my 20’s but halfway through my 40’s, and I thought more than once, “I can’t handle this.” My achy joints make it difficult to run along with my son while he’s trying out his bicycle and training wheels. I think, “If I was doing this at 25, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

I’m sure I’m wiser about some things, though, but I have a hard time telling you what it is. There are frivolous things I cared about as a younger man that I don’t now. I used to worry a little more about how I was viewed, whether or not people thought I was a big deal. Now, those worries don’t haunt me; I only want to see myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth at night and feel like I’m doing whatever I, myself, need to do. Maybe a dad who cares a little less about the hoop-jumping of the rest of the world makes for a better dad. I don’t know. I do know, though, that I see it all differently as an old dad.

I fight back dad tears all the time, and I’m not a crier. The mushy stuff that is put together to create tears usually doesn’t work on me. I’ve never shed a tear at a funeral. But, as a Dad I want to cry, a lot. Unwrapping Christmas presents, the first pedaling of the new bike, watching the little guy run out on the little league field, and the tears might not yet enter the room, but they are knocking at the door. We were at Chuck E. Cheese a few months ago for a birthday party. I’m an introvert among introverts, and Chuck E. Cheese is not my natural habitat. A bunch of people and kids packed into a room with so much noise, it’s not where I thrive. I saw a woman sitting alone at a table reading a book while, I guess, the kiddos she was tending were off playing the games. She sat quietly, never looking up from the book, and I thought, “Here is a loyal member of my tribe.” But, I go because my son wants to be there for the party and the fun. My son and his friends sat down for their pizza at the tables with all the other kids’ birthday parties. Out comes Chuck E. Cheese to do his song and dance for the kids’ parties. The kids treated Chuck E. like Elvis at the peak of his popularity. They cheered and yelled with joy. I heard my own son shout, “I love you, Chuck E.!,” and something about the innocent joy of these kids touched some pure source of beauty in the secret place in my heart, and I’m fighting back every tear that wanted to come and make a blubbering mess of this kid’s party.

I know this time is passing. My son sits cuddled next to me watching tv, his head resting on my shoulder and I know, “This won’t last forever.” In a year or two he’ll separate himself, and the days of snuggles will end. Would I have realized this as a young dad in my early twenties? Maybe, but my guess is maybe not. People tell me to appreciate this time because it passes quickly, and don’t I, the old dad who probably has lived more days than he has yet to live, know it? How long until he packs his stuff into a car and heads off toward whatever horizon is calling him? That day will surely precede the day I’m ready for it. So I try to tell myself, even on the hardest of parenting days, to not hope for the fast-forward on any of it. Would I have understood at 25 the beauty of these passing moments, like a butterfly that lands in my palm briefly only to fly away? Probably not. So, I’ll gladly accept that little gift of old dad wisdom.

On New Year’s Eve Day, my son and I went to a kids' New Year's party. Our local library set up a room for the kids to make crafts and play games. They even had a New Year’s countdown, but it was the minute before noon, not midnight. The kids surrounded parachutes that were filled with balloons they inflated just minutes before. 50 to 60 kids surrounded three parachutes and counted from ten to one, and after one they all shouted “Happy New Year!” The kids shook the parachutes which sent the hundreds of balloons flying. The library worker pressed play on a boombox, and a kid-pop version of Auld Lang Syne played over the kids’ screaming. Here I am, old dad standing against the wall, and all the tears I ever wanted to cry were making their way into my eyes. I cried at the carefree joy of these kids. I cried at the beauty of hundreds of balloons bouncing to the exuberance of children. I cried, too, knowing that while my son hopefully has many more years ahead of him, my future New Year’s countdowns are considerably less. The ones I have, though, this old dad with his young son sure appreciates.