Our guest blogger this week is Jim, our brother-in-law. He is married to our oldest sister who was born second of the ten.
I am the father of three wonderful boys. G. (age 5), M. (age 4) and L. (age 2).
I know having three children is no great achievement. I also know that, in itself, simply being a father is not all that difficult for most. However, my story is a little different. See, I became a father for the first time when I was 40 years old.
I have been married to my beautiful wife, H., for just a little over eight years. We got married when I was 38 years old. Until that time, I was a bachelor of the highest degree and had held firmly to some sage advice offered up by my mother when I was about 25 and having some "girl trouble." She said, "Jim, when it comes to marriage, wait until you're 30 and then forget about it." So that is exactly what I did.
Then, as always seems to happen in the movies and romance novels, love hit me square in the face. It was like Mike Tyson bringing a left hook somewhere out of Cleveland and meeting my jaw square on. But I digress. The intent of this article is not to discuss my love life or the beautiful marriage which has blessed us with our boys.
I want to be an ambassador for the other New Fathers Over Forty and share some wisdom, lessons and techniques from being a non-traditional (read OLDER) dad. The following is how I came to realize that my experience would be a little different:
I am the father of three wonderful boys. G. (age 5), M. (age 4) and L. (age 2).
I know having three children is no great achievement. I also know that, in itself, simply being a father is not all that difficult for most. However, my story is a little different. See, I became a father for the first time when I was 40 years old.
I have been married to my beautiful wife, H., for just a little over eight years. We got married when I was 38 years old. Until that time, I was a bachelor of the highest degree and had held firmly to some sage advice offered up by my mother when I was about 25 and having some "girl trouble." She said, "Jim, when it comes to marriage, wait until you're 30 and then forget about it." So that is exactly what I did.
Then, as always seems to happen in the movies and romance novels, love hit me square in the face. It was like Mike Tyson bringing a left hook somewhere out of Cleveland and meeting my jaw square on. But I digress. The intent of this article is not to discuss my love life or the beautiful marriage which has blessed us with our boys.
I want to be an ambassador for the other New Fathers Over Forty and share some wisdom, lessons and techniques from being a non-traditional (read OLDER) dad. The following is how I came to realize that my experience would be a little different:
A short time after G. was born my wife gave me the okay to take him out shopping with me. I was so excited. I loaded a diaper bag with a half dozen diapers, wipes, baby lotion, rattles, pacifiers and two bottles of mother's milk (nestled in their own little bag with cold packs). We were teeming with gear and ready to roll. I thought.
H., like a general mustering her troops, looked us up and down with a doubtful expression etched on her face. I had baby G. strapped to my chest with the Snugli baby carrier and he seemed content and ready to travel. H. said, "Does he look secure to you? I don't want him falling out of that thing." I walked into the bathroom to check our look in the mirror and couldn't help thinking how much we resembled a pair of tandem skydivers. We appeared ready to venture out. Or, to be dropped into enemy territory.
After passing inspection, we bid farewell to my wife and set off on our first excursion. I was tingling with anticipation because I knew we would be a big hit with all the other shoppers. I am always impressed when I see a father out with a small child and I thought others would be too. Just as we were leaving our small apartment, H. said, "I will watch you guys from the window." I guess I should mention that the grocery store to which we were en route was less than 200 yards from the apartment building. So, it's not like the trip required the use of pack mules and a Sherpa guide. But, I thanked her and offered another little peck on the cheek.
I must have been beaming as I walked along the sidewalk toward our destination. I waved at passing cars and bid a good afternoon to those we encountered on the walk. I could have given the finest nineteenth century English gent a run for his money in a contest of charm. As we entered the store I felt like all eyes were upon us. The father and son team who were clearly blessed with an extra dose of cuteness. As I glanced around I could see big smiles and heard the swoons of the townspeople as they admired father and child. Am I over selling our appeal?
I made the selections from the store shelves and carted them to the check-out. I intentionally chose the most grandmotherly of cashiers because I felt she was the most apt to gush over the adorable child and loving new father. However, as she scanned the items and slid them down to the bagging area, she barely took notice. After ringing up the items and unceremoniously announcing the amount due, she finally made eye contact with me. As I handed her the money, I could see she was looking at my beautiful child. Here it comes, I thought. The payoff.
As the cashier handed me my change, she said, "Is this your first grand baby?" I feared I would swallow my tongue. I was truly stupefied. My head swirled and I swear all I could hear was the sound of bacon frying in my brain. I left the store, head down, defeated and deflated. It's a good thing the little paratrooper was strapped to my chest or I may have, in my despair, accidentally left him at the scene of the crime.
It seemed to take hours to trudge home. I felt I would have much rather had the matronly cashier punch me in the nose than to call me..........a grandpa? As I entered the apartment H. must have seen the pain in my eyes. She asked if everything went well. Standing, with mouth agape, all I could do was answer with a nearly imperceptible, trembling squeak, "I am not Grandpa."
H., like a general mustering her troops, looked us up and down with a doubtful expression etched on her face. I had baby G. strapped to my chest with the Snugli baby carrier and he seemed content and ready to travel. H. said, "Does he look secure to you? I don't want him falling out of that thing." I walked into the bathroom to check our look in the mirror and couldn't help thinking how much we resembled a pair of tandem skydivers. We appeared ready to venture out. Or, to be dropped into enemy territory.
After passing inspection, we bid farewell to my wife and set off on our first excursion. I was tingling with anticipation because I knew we would be a big hit with all the other shoppers. I am always impressed when I see a father out with a small child and I thought others would be too. Just as we were leaving our small apartment, H. said, "I will watch you guys from the window." I guess I should mention that the grocery store to which we were en route was less than 200 yards from the apartment building. So, it's not like the trip required the use of pack mules and a Sherpa guide. But, I thanked her and offered another little peck on the cheek.
I must have been beaming as I walked along the sidewalk toward our destination. I waved at passing cars and bid a good afternoon to those we encountered on the walk. I could have given the finest nineteenth century English gent a run for his money in a contest of charm. As we entered the store I felt like all eyes were upon us. The father and son team who were clearly blessed with an extra dose of cuteness. As I glanced around I could see big smiles and heard the swoons of the townspeople as they admired father and child. Am I over selling our appeal?
I made the selections from the store shelves and carted them to the check-out. I intentionally chose the most grandmotherly of cashiers because I felt she was the most apt to gush over the adorable child and loving new father. However, as she scanned the items and slid them down to the bagging area, she barely took notice. After ringing up the items and unceremoniously announcing the amount due, she finally made eye contact with me. As I handed her the money, I could see she was looking at my beautiful child. Here it comes, I thought. The payoff.
As the cashier handed me my change, she said, "Is this your first grand baby?" I feared I would swallow my tongue. I was truly stupefied. My head swirled and I swear all I could hear was the sound of bacon frying in my brain. I left the store, head down, defeated and deflated. It's a good thing the little paratrooper was strapped to my chest or I may have, in my despair, accidentally left him at the scene of the crime.
It seemed to take hours to trudge home. I felt I would have much rather had the matronly cashier punch me in the nose than to call me..........a grandpa? As I entered the apartment H. must have seen the pain in my eyes. She asked if everything went well. Standing, with mouth agape, all I could do was answer with a nearly imperceptible, trembling squeak, "I am not Grandpa."
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