Who's Your Daddy?

Last Christmas I was at my mother's house in Massachusetts. At one point I looked out the front window to the house across the street and saw a woman with three children coming out the front door. "Who's that?" I asked. My mom replied "That's K with her three kids." I was overwhelmed by the need to sit down. K-across-the-street was someone I babysat when I was a teenager. I still remembered her as a quiet, freckle-faced seven-year old who played a mean game of Operation. And now she had three kids of her own, one of whom looked like a teenager. That freckle-faced child had given birth and was raising three human beings. And here I was, about to act younger than any of her 3 children by crawling underneath the Christmas tree and shaking a few wrapped gifts to see if I could figure out what Santa had brought me.

It seems everyone is having children. Single women are deciding to have babies on their own. Gay couples are adopting. Celebrities are travelling the globe in search of children who are attractive enough to be pursued by the paparazzi. Kids are everywhere you look. I'm sometimes suspicious that all these people are having children for the sole purpose of making me feel like an old man. Trust me, it's working. For example, my siblings have five children. Since I'm the youngest in my family, having five nieces and nephews isn't a big deal. I've had years with them around. The problem is that in the past few years, my nieces and nephews have started to have children of their own. I now have three great-nephews. Great-nephews! Just writing it causes me to feel every wrinkle in my face as they deepen.

The K-across-the-street at Christmas incident darkened much of my winter. I felt forced to admit that I was old enough to be someone's father. And although it had certainly occurred to me in the past that people my age had children, seeing K walk out the door with those kids was much like having the proverbial ice cold water thrown in my face. I tried to picture myself with children, assembling new bicycles on birthdays, making weekend trips to the zoo and hiring babysitters. Then, remembering my age, I attempted to adjust that vision into attending high-school graduations and teaching my kids to drive. It all made me slightly queasy.

Father. Dad. Daddy. Does anyone really aspire to be called these things? I admit there's some appeal to the thought of having someone call out "Daddy" under the right set of circumstances. Say you head to some gay establishment, meet someone and head back to his place to eventually hear "Oooh, Daddy" or "Oh yeah, Daddy" gasped out between loud moans while tangled in sweaty sheets and surrounded by condoms and lubricant. Under those conditions, it doesn't sound bad at all. Maybe, there's a lot to be said for reaching this age of Daddy-hood.

But then, on February 26th, a man I never met threw a monkey wrench into everything. A newspaper headline that morning read "Grandparents Win $270M Lottery Prize." It explained that Robert and Tonya Harris, a couple from Georgia, had played the birthdates of five of their six grandchildren and won the lottery. It all sounded very sweet. I pictured this retired, gray-haired couple, most likely living Social Security check to Social Security check. And now, surrounded by their six loving grandchildren, they were celebrating their enormous multi-million dollar win together. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life, until I got to the next line of the story. "Mr. Robert Harris, 47..."

Grandpa was only 47 years old.

I didn't take this news well. The Harris clan may have been celebrating down in Georgia, but I was tempted to throw an enormous hissy fit up here in New Jersey. It had taken all winter to ease myself into the realization that I was old enough for another person, another adult even, to refer to me as their parent. But in one shout out of "Gee, Grandma, we won the lottery" coming from Georgia, I was now faced with the idea that I was old enough to be someone's grandfather. Let's face it, hearing "Oh yeah, do that again Grandaddy" is not exactly the stuff from which fantasies are made.

I hope the Harris clan is happy. And I hope that K-across-the-street enjoys every moment of motherhood. And while there's no getting around the fact that there are people my age who are parents and grandparents, there's also no getting around the fact that without children, I can choose to act any age I wish. K-across-the-street has to teach her kids by example how to be good and productive people. And the Harrises now have the job of teaching their grandchildren that, despite the windfall, there are still rules to be followed and chores to do. And while they attend to those tasks, this 46-year old man without children or grandchildren can still crawl under that Christmas tree and happily shake all the presents he wants.