I sat on the porch with my youngest child the other day. We talked about nothing, just bouncing from topic to topic. She’s in second grade so her interests pinball through dance, soccer, school, and friends. We sat on that top step until suddenly the conversation stopped and we both looked up, watching a loose circle of birds glide on the wind. It was my daughter’s eighth birthday.
I thought about a conversation I’d had with my wife.
“Are we considered ‘older parents?'” I had asked her.
“Yes, you are,” she had replied.
“I said ‘we.'”
“You’re only as old as you feel and act. So, yes, you’re an older parent.”
That stung a little, but, you know, she had a point.
When my wife was pregnant with our youngest biological child, she was 36 years old. At one of the obstetrician visits, she reviewed her paperwork and saw the designation “advanced maternal age” next to her other vitals. She’s never forgotten that.
Since then, we’ve added to our brood. We were in our mid-40’s when our youngest was born, though she came to us from different parents. I don’t know, maybe I am considered an older parent since I’m 52 with an 8-year-old.
I do think that my “advanced” parenting age means I’m now more tuned to deeper meaning as opposed to the tumble of days that is youth. I think I take more time to notice the little things. I think I understand how vital it is to play the long game with our children. Today is important. However, the moment does not transcend the path. Of course, now that I’m older, I feel the urge to elaborate. On everything. Bear with me.
My wife and I got engaged after three months of dating, married five months later, and had our firstborn a year after that. Man, we were idealistic. And naïve. Back then, we were considered the young parents with our oldest child–who is now 26.
As young parents, we agonized over spelling tests that were not A+’s. We worried when our kids didn’t get a starting position in a soccer game or when they didn’t come in first in track or cross country. We put too much weight on the normal mistakes that kids make and fretted that any damage would be life altering. We monitored friendships more closely than we should have.
As older parents, we’ve come to see that life’s beauty is found in its flaws. It’s in those unfair or unjust moments that we’ve come to notice life’s wonder more readily because we’ve realized those instances as the best opportunity for beauty to be born.
As older parents, we’ve taken time to be more present for our kids. We’ve always attended every activity they’ve been part of and cheered every spelling bee, every school play, every athletic contest. Now, we understand the great value of talking with them instead of to them. Talking to a child means they get to a hear a lecture. Again.
Talking with a child means a conversation unfolds and that child’s plans and fears, challenges and hopes, all come to bear. It’s the Socratic method of parenting, in a sense. Ask a few questions, sit back, and watch the thoughts swirling in your child’s head come to life in the sound of their voice. That’s a conversation worth having again and again and again.
As older parents, we’ve realized there’s no value in overscheduling. In fact, it’s downright harmful. We do understand the value of competing, of participating and putting oneself out there to succeed or fail. We’ve always required our kids to have a physical activity simply because it’s good for them. But the great value in unstructured time can’t be overstated. This is when imaginations let loose and entrepreneurial spirits run wild. This is when soul-revealing words materialize.
As older parents, we’ve come to understand that other parents are just as lost as we are, that despite those who appear to have everything together, they’re still figuring it out just like us. I used to point out to my wife the families I thought were perfect, holding them up as example of what we should strive for. Then, invariably, that family would face an ugly divorce, a tragic addiction, or just refuse to exist much beyond the confines of their homes, denying themselves the true benefits of discomfort. I stopped comparing families pretty quickly.
There is no handbook that fits each child, and so much of parenting is just figuring it out along the way. It’s okay to make mistakes. As older parents, we’ve learned to own those mistakes. To say, “I’m sorry.”
So I sat there on the front porch with my daughter on her birthday, and I was reminded of a story I heard about Southern grandmothers. They believe people spend too much time looking for God in miracle cures and burning bushes. They believe God loves a person the most on their birthdays, the anniversary of the moment they were born, before sin and immorality attacked them. For those willing to spend a few moments on those days searching for God, he will reward them with portents of the year to come. He will write in the sky the story of the coming year. Their birthday sky.
My back ached from sitting on the concrete porch step, but I was entranced by spending a birthday with a child. I found myself whispering a prayer of thanks that I get the honor of being a parent, even an older parent. As I listened to my daughter talk excitedly, nonstop, a waterfall of words pouring forth like only 8-year-olds can manage, she suddenly became quiet again as we watched the circle of birds rise into the wind.
The sky was the deep blue of an ocean, warm and clear.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. “The Strenuous Life” appears every other Saturday.
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