I’m not going to address this directly to you, unborn baby, but you should certainly feel free to read along, if you like.
I was talking with my virtual pal Danny today about the fact that I’ll be almost 40 when this new baby comes into my life. That means nearly 60 when s/he graduates from high school (knock on wood). To paraphrase the inimitable DLR from Hot for Teacher, “I don’t feel 40.” And, unlike my lovely wife, I don’t give a whit whether I look 40, either. I’m in good health. I have a job (for now). And a house (for now). Why, then, should it be that I experienced a moment’s panic the other day at the oddly sudden thought that I’m going to have an infant in my house on my 40th birthday?
In the old days, when I was “on Facebook,” I noticed that most of my contemporaries appeared to have finished having their kids a couple years back, if not before their 30s set in. Was that the smart thing to do? I have to wonder. I know that, in general, people are living longer, healthier lives these days. If that trend continues, I should be able to give my kids at least a couple good years before I fall down the inevitable slide of senility and decay.
When Leah was pregnant with Ava, our friend Ed used to joke that she was classified as a geriatric pregnancy and therefore high risk. “Ha ha.” You can imagine how that went over with Leah, even if you’ve never met her. But if there’s ever been a cover model for The New 40, it’s Leah. She’s nothing like geriatric. And because women tend to do better in the aging department than their male counterparts, I’m counting on her to pick up the slack for me in my golden years.
I guess I’m just fretting for the day I’m not able to keep up with the kids on their adventures, if they’ll have me along at all.