Congratulations, old chap! All the very best to you, your wife, and the little life stirring in her womb.
There’ll be many magical moments ahead for you, as well as many great strains, stresses, trials and tribulations. But your whole existence has taken on a new meaning and focus with the conception of that child, and you’ll find that your world has shifted on its axis after he or she is born.
Many fine sentiments have been expressed in this thread. I can’t match the best of them, but here’s an account of what becoming a father (in advanced middle age) has meant for me:
When I was single, I was viscerally averse to any thought of having a child. I kept as far away from children as I possibly could, and considered myself very fortunate not to be burdened with my own or likely to ever be so burdened. I didn’t mind occasionally holding or cooing over a sweet little baby or infant, but that was as close as I was ever willing to get to any of our “little friends.”
At one time, in my 30s, I had a Taiwanese girlfriend who was almost perfect in every respect. She was physically gorgeous (a figure shaped to perfection by competitive ice-skating in her teens), had a sweet and loving disposition, ardently shared all of my pleasures, and also happened to be the only child of a very rich family (a potential complication, but also a potential bonus if we’d married). There was only one snag: she loved children, and when she started talking with misty eyes about the children she longed for us to make together, I knew it was time to go our separate ways. I eased her gently out of my life, but could never quite get her out of my mind, and could never quite forgive myself for letting my horror of fatherhood cause me to cast away such a treasure. (I’ve never contacted her again, but I heard from mutual friends that she went abroad and married an American. And I’ve seen her picture on Facebook, smiling happily with her two little boys, so I’m very glad for her.)
I was extremely happy to remain single and childless into my 40s, and didn’t expect that to ever change. But fate conspired to nudge me into marriage, with a woman who knew very well how I felt about having children, and apparently had very similar feelings herself. Her four of sisters each had one child, and it was evident that her life was much fuller, freer and easier than theirs for not being so burdened.
However, after we’d been married two or three years, one of her sisters had a second baby. It was a delightful, serene little baby, and triggered my wife’s maternal instincts into full activation. Her family, of course, were stoking the fire, constantly going on about how we should have a baby, how gorgeous it would certainly be as a mixed-blood child, and how everyone would surely teng (adore) it above all others.
With her biological clock ticking down, my wife began pining more and more deeply for that child, and after a brief initial resistance, and futile efforts to remind her how happy we were with our child-free life and how everything would change if we had a baby, I relented (since I couldn’t deny her the chance to be a mum when she wanted it so much), and agreed to have one. I was hoping against hope that one or both of us would turn out to be infertile, but it wasn’t to be, and soon enough she got the happy confirmation that she was pregnant.
Having made the decision to become a father, I committed myself to it heart and soul. I cosseted her during the pregnancy, went with her for all the pre-natal checks, talked to her belly, made all the plans, the whole works, like any excited father-to-be. My relief and delight when our daughter was born healthy and whole was as great as any emotion I’ve felt in my life. I have doted on the little girl since the day she was born, and have made her the centre of my universe. Nothing matters more to me than her happiness and well-being, and I’m willing to sacrifice everything for her.
The cost and burden of having a child have, as it turns out, been even greater than I had supposed. She has been a high-maintenance baby, waking constantly in the night until a few months ago (she’s just turned four), a very fussy eater, quick to cry, and very demanding of attention. I moved to ghastly Linkou for her sake, so she could be near to her Taiwanese grandparents, aunties and cousins. I was very happy in Xindian, where I’d lived for 20 years, and have been terribly unhappy living here. I have had to give up the things I cherish most, especially my daily jaunts into nature, river-tracing, and swims in mountain creeks. I have had to cut my precious exercise routines to the absolute minimum, and entirely give up all social life. I will have to continue working for 10 to 15 more years, maybe even longer, rather than retiring early as I had always aimed and planned for and would have been able to do already if I only had myself to provide for (since my wife has given up work to look after our daughter, I’m now the sole breadwinner in the family). I’m always tired, my previously roaring good health and fitness have deteriorated a lot, my hair is greying, and I’ve aged at least ten years since she was born.
Before I was a dad, I used to mine every precious moment of every day for all I could get out of it, extracting every bit of its marrow, filling each minute with purposeful, productive, fulfilling activity, seldom frittering away any time in idle vacuity. Now that I’m a dad, I spend endless hours every day engaging in mind-numbingly dull playtime with my daughter, repetitively acting out simple roleplays, reading and rereading stories, playing with dolls and teddy bears and building blocks and keys and coins and anything else that can capture her attention and amuse her. Day after day flies by bereft of anything productive or stimulating except investment in my daughter’s happiness and development.
My life now consists of almost nothing but work and looking after Emma. I work at home, and feel compelled to spend as much time as possible with Emma. When I don’t have work to do or take a break from work, I go downstairs to play with her or take her out. I cannot allow myself to be away from her for even a few hours unless it is absolutely unavoidable. It’s ten times harder than it was before to get my work done, terribly hard to tell her that I must go upstairs to do my work when she’s pleading with me to play with her for a bit longer, all but impossible to stay at my desk when I hear her crying or calling for me.
I often lament all the things I’ve lost by becoming a dad, how much it has narrowed down my life, and how hugely it has added to my cares. Yet I don’t regret it. I love that child more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. My biggest fear is that I’ll die prematurely, not because I’m afraid of death itself, but because I’m afraid that I’ll die before I’ve had time to give her as much as a father can possibly give to his child.
Life without children is so easy. Trying to be the best father one can be is endlessly stressful, anguishing, worrying, and frustrating. Her sadness, illness and tears rend my heart like nothing else can. Sometimes, my patience snaps, and I’ll raise my voice, speak to her harshly, punish her by taking something away (though never, ever by physical chastisement). Afterwards, I feel sick, wretched, torn up inside, close to despair. Being a good dad is the hardest thing in the world, and it’s agonizing to feel one might be falling short in any way.
I think I was absolutely right not to want children before. My instinctive aversion was spot on. What a rich, carefree, pleasure-filled life I could still be leading if I hadn’t fallen into the fathering trap. If I were to wind back the clock and be given the choice of remaining childless or letting life take me where it has, it would surely be irrational, close to madness, for me to opt for the latter. And yet, I cannot bear to think that this lovely little girl might never have lived if I’d let my dread of fatherhood prevail.
