Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
He came out of nowhere – seasonally clad in red and white flannel pyjamas, creeping across the floor with intense determination.
I was transfixed by the sparkle of his eyes and could not turn away.
He had the most beautiful smile and I wrenched my neck in all directions to try to determine the source of his sudden and undivided attention. And in a most awkward moment, I realized it was me.
Let me back up and start from the beginning.
You can spend your fortune and your fate trying to see the world, but you've squandered your opportunities if you haven't taken the time to look at it all again through the eyes of a child. Dads get to do that.
Kids are nature's truth serum and if you pay careful attention, they will reveal a million things about life's triumphs and tragedies. With kids, you get to see the magic happen all over again and it becomes real. Dads get to see that world through a new set of eyes – even the dads who become dads past the age of 50.
Now, that's not an easy feat. Oh, the biology works just fine for most. But it's still an enormous journey that carries a shocking amount of unexpected baggage.
Listen to just about everyone and you will be told to never have a child when you pass the age of 50. Friends, neighbours and family members are, all suddenly, expert actuaries and stand on top of skids of studies reporting how difficult the world will be for older dads.
I've fought back with every argument imaginable. Older dads are more patient. They're better off financially. They're more settled and can take the time to play and trigger the imagination. They can offer a lap for a long time without having to move. I've let my daughter do my hair and put makeup on me. I'm pretty sure I would have been too caught up in myself to let that happen in my 30s.
Sure, it's been widely reported that there is some evidence that kids with older dads are susceptible to more medical problems, but not all of them. Statistics show only 1 per cent of men become dads after they turn 50, so we can't be that big of a problem.
But then they turn around and remind you that you are closer to the end of the movie than the beginning. And from those scolding pulpits they tacitly remind you that just about all the great moments will be harder when you're older. Playing catch? Not much of a game, is it? You going to teach them how to ski? It'll be downhill and not in the way you think. You'll be in your 70s when they graduate. And when those boys start coming around, will you spring up to check them out or will you just have to sit and rest a spell? Suddenly, the very idea of late parenthood is shrouded with black bunting.
And time is a big part of it. You stare at the clock and the calendar and wonder: Will you miss all the really great moments because you're gone? Will some other fellow walk your daughter down the aisle? Will you be a faded memory in a photo album when advice is needed when the trouble comes?
Listen to everyone and older dads do because they have no choice.
We stand in line at the hardware store on the day a first bicycle is going to change your daughter's world. We are complimented by people with the best intentions who applaud you for buying your granddaughter her own wheels.
We listen intently as people who mean well think it's great that you can make it to see your grandchild in the Christmas concert.
I work at home and that allows me the privilege of meeting my little girl, Mackenzie, when she steps off the school bus. She's usually all smiles, flip-flops, butterflies and bubble gum, but there have been a few days she's walked down those steps with tears in her eyes.
"I told them you're not an old man. I told them you're my Dad and I like your white beard."
The kids on the bus were still laughing as it pulled away. Mackenzie was hurt.
It was a longer-than-usual walk back to the house that day. She held my hand and I wiped her tears away and considered whether to shave the beard and at least try to look younger. What if you are embarrassing your daughter and breaking her heart?
And then you find yourself sitting on a couch in a friend's home at a holiday party. The adults are talking and laughing. The children are playing – all save one little boy who has spent the past several minutes scoping you out.
Maybe it's your white beard. Or maybe it's the red and white sweater you're wearing. And surely it's the glittering Christmas tree just a few feet away.
The little boy and I locked eyes and everyone around us became silent. It was the look on his face and his sheer determination.
I'd met him once before, but so long ago a two year old could not have remembered.
He grabbed my knee and scaled it like it was Kilimanjaro. The room grew so silent you could hear the tinsel move on the tree.
When he reached the summit, he stared deeply into my eyes and dropped his gaze for just a moment to reconfirm my white beard.
"Can I have a fire truck?" he asked me.
The room burst into laughter, but no one was smiling and laughing harder than me.
"You sure can, Sebastian," I told him.
And why the heck not? Sometimes toddlers make the best firefighters. They spot a smouldering problem and extinguish it with just a couple of words.
My daughter beamed and shot me a prideful glance that told me she had to agree. Of course she did.
After all, not everyone's dad is Santa Claus.
John Beattie lives in Toronto.