What I Regret About Being an Older Parent (And What I’ve Learned Along the Way)
The linoleum in the middle school hallway smells like lemon floor wax and leftover cherry Kool-Aid from last night’s volleyball game. My left knee throbs from the cortisone shot I got earlier that week, and I’m fumbling with a crumpled class schedule stuffed into my jacket pocket, when the woman standing next to me by Leo’s locker turns and asks, “Waiting for your grandkid’s conference too?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, I’m Leo’s dad.” She blushes and stammers an apology, I wave it off like it’s no big deal, and by the time we head into homeroom, she’s already moved on. But that question nags at me all night, the same way it does every time someone makes that assumption. It’s not the rudeness that gets to me. It’s the quiet confirmation of the regret I carry most days as a dad who had his kid at 42.
People talk a lot about the perks of being an older parent: more stable finances, more life experience, more patience. I won’t lie, those things are real. I own my home, I don’t stress about small scraped knees the way I see younger parents panicking, and I never cared about keeping up with the latest fashion or social media drama even when I was young. But no one talks about the small, daily regrets that come with being 55 when your kid is only 13.
The biggest one isn’t even the big scary one everyone asks about—will I be here for his wedding, will I meet my grandkids. That’s there, of course, but it lives far in the back of my head. The regret I feel every week is that I spent the first 10 years of his life in a hurry. I was already settled into my routine, my body was already starting to wear out, and I was so aware of the clock ticking that I kept rushing him to the next milestone, instead of staying put in the one we were in. When he was 5, all he wanted to do every Saturday morning was sort tiny Lego bricks and build terrible spaceships on our living room floor. I’d already put in 20 years of long work weeks, and I was eager to get to the part where he could keep up with me on the 5-mile hikes I love, where he could go a whole day without needing me to tie his shoes or wipe his face or pick up his toys. I’d suggest we wrap up the Lego after 20 minutes, grab our water bottles, and head out to the trail. I thought I was giving him quality time. What I was really doing was missing the only Lego time I’d ever get with him. Now he leaves half-built Lego sets in his closet for months, and he’d rather die than build one with me on a Saturday. I keep the bin of his old 5-year-old Legos in the attic, and I pass it every time I go up to get the Christmas lights, and that regret sits right with me.
The other regret I don’t talk about much is that I run out of energy way faster than younger parents. Last year, I was the only dad who sat on the bench the whole time during elementary school field day, because my back couldn’t handle bending down for the three-legged race. I used to feel guilty about that, and I’d push through even when I was sore for three days after. But over time, I figured out small adjustments that work for us. I carved out 15 minutes every day of low-effort, kid-led time that doesn’t require me to run anywhere. I bought a $10 folding stool that I keep by his gaming setup, and I just sit there most days, ask one question about whatever he’s playing, and don’t pester him to talk more. Some days we don’t say anything at all, I just scroll my phone while he plays, and that’s enough. It’s not the active, perfect parent time you see in social media reels, but it’s what I can manage, and it keeps us connected.
I also stopped hiding my awkwardness about our age gap from Leo. I used to get defensive and quiet when people mistook me for his grandpa, and Leo started to pick up on that awkwardness, like it was something we had to be ashamed of. Now we joke about it. When the cashier at the grocery store made that same mistake a couple months ago, Leo grinned and said, “He’s my dad, he just started aging like a milk carton in the sun,” and we both laughed all the way to the car. Normalizing the weirdness takes all the sting out of it, for both of us.
For the big fear, the one about not being here for all his big moments, I started doing one small thing that doesn’t take any time or money. At the end of every month, I write three or four sentences in a beat-up spiral notebook I got for free from work. It’s nothing fancy: “September 2023: You beat me at Mario Kart and made me eat a whole spoonful of mayonnaise as punishment. You laughed so hard you snort-laughed. It was the best part of my week.” If I’m not here when he gets married, or when he buys his first house, he won’t just have an old baby book of first words and a bunch of photos. He’ll have a hundred small, stupid, real moments that I didn’t want to forget.
Last month, I had to turn down chaperoning his 8th grade camping trip, because my doctor said sleeping on a cot would throw my back out for weeks. I felt terrible about it. Leo ended up going with his best friend’s dad, who’s 38 and runs marathons, and he had a great time. When he got home, he dumped his gear by the door, pulled a stale, crumbly s’more out of his backpack that he’d saved for me, and spent an hour showing me every single photo he took on his phone. I sat on my folding stool by his bed, ate that stale s’more, and just listened.
I still have regrets. I still miss the Lego Saturdays, I still wish I could run around the playground with him the way the younger dads do, I still lie awake some nights worrying I won’t get to walk him down the aisle. But I’ve stopped trying to pretend the regret isn’t there, and I’ve stopped trying to be a younger dad than I am. Right now, this is what we’ve got, and it’s enough.
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