My friend Mary messaged me recently to update me about her daughter. “Megan had her third gig tonight,” she wrote, “she’s made the decision to get certified as a yoga teacher. It’s just wild that my little girl is a grown-up now. So weird.”
What I found both wild and weird was that Mary and I are the same age. I was reading about her daughter’s gigs and yoga training while helping my own children dress up as pirates. Mary had her daughter when she was in her early 20s, I had mine when I was 40.
The idea of being a dad in my 20s or early 30s scared the living daylights out of me back then. It was the fear that I would not be able to cope, the intimidating sense of responsibility that comes with parenthood, the worry that it would impact my career and the worry of being able to financially provide for my children.
What I did not appreciate then was that those fears do not magically vanish simply because one is older — I still worry about those things but I am too busy to have the time to dwell for too long on such things. I thought I was being smart to wait.
It meant I could devote my 20s and 30s to work, friends, concerts and travelling — to having fun. The other reason I never had children when I was younger was I had not yet met my wife. Bridget is a bit younger than me so when I was 30 she was 23.
When I asked her the other day whether she wished she’d had our daughter at that age her reply was not suitable for a family newspaper. I didn’t meet my wife until I was in my mid-30s so I am now an older dad.
I think I do reasonably well as a father but the truth is that fatherhood is a young man’s game. It is physically exhausting play-fighting with my little boy or chasing after him in the park. It is mentally tiring having to constantly negotiate with my daughter before she will do anything we ask. I have friends my age whose children are at university — I am going to be in my early 60s by the time my boy leaves home.
How I envy those who are my age who have their lives back, who don’t have to set aside half their monthly salary for babysitters, who can pack books when they go on holiday in the expectation they might actually pick said book up.
I dream of going on a holiday without the children but by the time that will be possible most of my luggage will likely consist of my medication. In the meantime, this half-term my wife told me she was keen to get away. She wanted a restful holiday and a chance to recharge her batteries. I wanted this for her too — it’s been a challenging year for our family — but I knew there was only one way she would have a restful holiday.
And so I stayed in London with the children while my wife spent four days in Portugal visiting friends without us. There is a price for waiting to have children — and I am paying it now.
Magic Dylan
Bob Dylan played the last of a four-night residency at the Palladium this week.
I was keen to go but the gigs were totally sold out. In hope, if not expectation, I tweeted to ask if anyone had a spare ticket going. That was how I ended up going to see Dylan on Monday night with a complete stranger — a lovely fellow fan called Charles.
Dylan was on brilliant form — there was one moment when he growled a few lines and I was convinced I knew what song he was singing. I was wrong but it’s a memory I will forever cherish. What made the concert even more special was that all mobile phones had to be locked in a pouch. For a few precious hours I could forget about the nightmare on Downing Street and fully enjoy listening to one of the undisputed musical geniuses of our time.
