At 44, and with one daughter from a previous relationship, I thought my years of having more kids were behind me. Not so much biologically, but with particular respect to, well, just being too old to be having more kids. Or perhaps I was just content in the assumption that the days of young kids were in the rear-view mirror—life certainly gets easier as they become a little less reliant on you. Mornings, for example, became a bit more glorious when my eldest daughter reached an age where she could get herself up, have some breakfast, and keep herself amused for a little while—a pleasant shift from summoning me, crying, screaming, or yelling out for me before 6 every morning.
Alicia and I had the conversation about kids quite early in our relationship. On deliberating on the prospect, my concern was for our unborn children in having an older Dad. We agreed we weren’t going to rush into having kids before my mid-forties just to ease my insecurities, and so the reality was that, by the time we have our first, I’d be closer to 48. That being the case, my thoughts were centred on the fact that if I have kids at 48, 50, or whatever, when the kids are 10, they’ve got a 60-year-old for a Grandad. I mean, Dad. I was a bit triggered by that thought throughout the time until after our first was born, and it was Alicia who got me to the point where I was at peace with it—rather, closer to being at peace with it because it still plays on me today.
I wouldn’t say I’m a typical 50-year-old—I’ve managed to maintain a youthful perspective, I suppose I rarely act my age, and I do try and keep myself in reasonably good shape. And I think that all helps. Not to imply that to become a Dad at the mid-life point, be it again or the first time, one needs to be in good physical shape and have an attitude and personality leaning toward the more puerile. It’s just that, for me, with all my insecurities, it has certainly helped in alleviating some anxieties about the future.
This brings me to an underlying issue. Through all this time spent worrying about being an older parent with young kids, I’ve missed an obvious and very significant point: just how do I intend on helping my kids in becoming self-confident and resilient when it’s obvious I’m lacking in self-confidence myself? Resilience I’m all good with—fall down 7 times, get up 8, and all that—I’ve done enough to prove to myself my own resilience. The irony is I did many of those things due to low self-confidence and persistent thoughts of simply not being good enough. Notwithstanding, a lack of resilience is far from being my concern. Indeed, on reflection, what is more troubling is, how much is enough to prove to myself that I am good enough? How far does one need to go? Inadvertently, writing this blog post has led me to a profound realisation that I’ve lived most of my time trying to be someone else for people that don’t even matter—too fearful of being myself because I didn’t even know who I was—it’s a fact that’s put an end to so many aspirations and possibilities.
Is it too late for learning learn new tricks? Are all my insecurities, and less than ideal opinions of myself, so ingrained that I’m unable to make positive change stick? Time and again I’ve tried to introduce change, only to see the motivation, effort, and consistency evaporate. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Maybe I’m still not ready. For my kids, though, I’ll have a good crack.
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