Kids thrive in a stable, predictable, safe world of order, love and boundaries. As a more mature midlife male, I was infinitely more capable of providing such an environment. Why? Because I’ve acted out and have grown past most of my wild rascal shenanigans.
I’ve already traveled around, played around, dabbled around, and wandered around the block a few times. Been to the rodeo… used the T-shirt to wipe up the mess. And since I’ve been there and done some of that, the gnawing sense that I might be missing that irresistible yet elusive “something” out there has diminished.
My insane itching urge to shuck it all to pursue my madness is now a more dormant desire, fueling fond memories instead of immature action sprees. The best thing I ever did during my sowing of wild oats days was very purposefully not become a parent. Somehow, I knew better.
Hitchhiking around the states, living in a commune, sleeping on couches throughout the country on a presidential campaign, and helping make a low-budget, B-movie horror film were just not conducive to a stable relationship with a spouse or children.
How should I put this? When I was young, eager for experience, knew I’d live forever, and the rules applied to everyone else but me, I would go and flow wherever the action seemed most intriguing.
Back in those days, especially my 20s and 30s, nothing could stand in the way of me doing what I wanted. If I’d had a family during those times of intense personal exploration, I would’ve been a neglectful father.
Had a family prevented me from trying my hand at free-wheeling investigations of travel, politics, and film, I would have felt imprisoned. I would’ve been pacing the baby’s room, blaming my wife and kids for my confinement, growing resentful, then bitter, longing for what I missed, and planning my escapes.
As a prime time dad who’s lived out those dreams (with nightmares), I’m now ready for the cozy confines of the parental penitentiary. Heck, instead of trying to tunnel out of the place, I’ve helped reproduce more inmates to join me on the inside. I’m not imprisoned by children… I’m impassioned by them.
You see, I’ve had enough girlfriends, lost enough money in Vegas, scuba-ed in Aruba, partied hearty, emerged through plenty of scrapes and traps, and have now matured enough to realize I don’t need to revisit any of it. Enough is enough. If you’re a more mature guy, you know what I mean.
I thank my lucky stars that I survived my past, lived hard to realize some of my dreams, and that I don’t have to do it all again. I’m now ready to embrace wholeheartedly my family life.
I already got my ya-yas out. I’m now level-headedly ready and eager for this new adventure. And you know what? As it’s turning out, raising kids is truly the wildest trip of all. They’re born with an endless supply of ya-yas. That ironic karmic wheel simply creaked full circle.
