Commentary : New-Old Father Views His Second Son From a Different Perspective

Life doesn’t begin at 55, but it sure can take a fresh turn.

It has for me--five years past the half-century mark, I have a baby son.

Every 18 years I have a son. The first is about to enter college. The second, the product of a second marriage, is diaper-deep into his eighth month.

It’s an odd feeling being a father again. A daughter, 25, a son, 18, and a baby. The first two children were born while I was chasing a career; my baby son arrived long after I had captured it.

The distractions from fatherhood are considerably less now, while the love is the same. It is just clearer now.

I changed diapers then, about two decades ago. But I don’t remember it. I change diapers now, and it is unforgettable. Things are different in other ways too.

There is the birth itself. In these musings on a Father’s Day, I must take note of the change in the delivery process itself.

Back in the ‘60s, husbands had little to do with it. It was a mother’s affair, and the doctor’s business. The husband’s principal task was to stay out of the way--just get mom to the hospital in time. And then wait in the waiting room, empty a couple of packs of cigarettes, and hang around uselessly for hours until you’re told whether it’s a boy or girl and that mother and baby are doing fine. That’s how it was with Stacy and Neil.

This time, with Jeremy, I didn’t have to be told. I was there. In the delivery room, actually being helpful, the culmination of weeks of practice classes in the labor and delivery process, and more practice at home.

The involvement, for me, was as adventurous as it was fearful. But we all survived, Marci, Jeremy and I.

I now have a son whose dad is old enough to be his grandfather. Somehow the years and the participation in the delivery of my baby--just being there--have given me a new perspective on new little human beings, my son included. I look upon them, and him, for what they are, not what they will be.

They are struggling, curious, funny and courageous, sometimes to the point of disaster, human beings. Little things mean a lot to them. The first toy rattle firmly grasped is a moment of celebration.

And they are full of surprises. Jeremy’s first truly hearty laugh came when he saw, for the first time, our miniature dachshund. Now, how he ever knew that miniature dachshunds are funny-looking is quite beyond me.

Children are children. They are not, nor should they ever be expected to be, small adults.

That’s how I see my son, for what he is, at this moment--a child, who learns more, and changes imperceptibly every day, and perceptibly every month.

At my age, these moments, days and months are precious. I’m no fool. I know what the insurance odds-makers would say about any expectation that I would see Jeremy make it through college. That’s all right. I just know Jeremy will make it.

Meanwhile, I have the time with him now. It is good time, time spent being close to him, observing and enjoying.

Twenty years ago, it couldn’t have been this way. Too much of my life went into my work, and fathers felt foolish pushing their babies along in strollers, or being seen alone with them in a store or restaurant, or sharing a rattle with them in a public park.

Not today. Fathers may now feel a little clumsy doing these things, but not foolish. That’s the way it is with Jeremy and me. He came along at a good time.