Mileage

“Pop!”

It’s the onomatopoeic sound of fireworks, an exploding balloon, popcorn, and a weasel, as the familiar yet peculiar nursery rhyme would have us believe. It’s generally a thrilling sound under most circumstances and always grabs one’s attention without fail. It was also the uncharacteristically unpleasant sound my left knee painfully made 20 minutes into my son’s parents-versus-kids final soccer practice of the fall season.

As I fell to the ground, grimacing on the soft, damp grass, I attempted in vain to rise and stand, only to be brought back down decidedly to the turf, my 47-year-old body cluing me in to the harsh reality that 10 years and 40 pounds removed from routine exercise have adjusted the scale of what should be defined as “strenuous activity.” I sat on the sideline for the remainder of the match and then hobbled with assistance to the edge of the field where an uninjured parent kindly drove my van to where I stood waiting, bracing myself on the coach’s right shoulder.

After driving my son home with my functional right lower limb and arranging for his older sister to put him to bed, I drove cautiously to the nearest urgent care to determine what damage had been done. As I reclined in an exam room waiting for an x-ray that would return negative results for a break, on the tv was broadcast, ironically and mockingly, a soccer match. I would depart with a knee brace and a set of tall crutches, leaving me to arrange a MRI the following day to determine if any damage had been sustained to the ligaments, as my wife, who was inconveniently out of town for a work trip, suspected.

The first 20 years or so of your life can feel like a lifetime. So many rich and varied stages of development take place in the early years between infancy and the beginning of adulthood and pack plenty of meaning and memories into the space of two decades. No one tells you, however, how much more rapidly the following 20 years or so will pass you by.

The passage of time notwithstanding, October 2023 is shaping out to be a personal watershed year for the reality of aging, as I’m discovering. Not three weeks ago, I purchased my first pair of reading glasses. I’ve inconsistently required them, but I can’t deny they were just what I needed in select moments; anyone, and I do mean anyone, younger than me can’t say the same. Within a few days time, my son tactlessly offered the observation returning from the park one afternoon that I had a number of white hairs in my beard that he hadn’t noticed before. And now here was my knee loudly and painfully announcing its collapse, as if to herald the end of an era and to punish me for how much I had taken its heretofore reliable operation for granted.

I tell myself 47 isn’t that old, and I’m sure many would agree with me. It’s all perspective, I say. In less medically progressive times, my lifespan might be nearing its natural end. Yet, it occurred to me the other day that my dear grandparents, who are as frail and fragile as a living soul can exist in their 90s, were roughly my age when I, their first grandchild, arrived. If my age otherwise qualifies me for a grandchild, then it’s time to consider that the vibrancy of youth, at least physically, is now a distant memory.

Parenting, I would argue, has the potential to accelerate the process a bit. Any supremely stressful primary responsibility, come to think of it, would equally qualify. I once heard my parents remark many years ago concerning a president leaving office how much it appeared he had aged over the relatively short span of years. I couldn’t help but agree when viewing the before and after pics. The task of guiding a nation can take its toll on one’s whole person in much the same way the job of raising one’s children can, especially if things aren’t living up to expectations. And if I were honest, I find that I don’t always cope very well with unmet personal expectations for my kids in the areas of emotions, academics, or just plain development. And there is a very good reason for that, as I’ve come to realize.

My sweet wife, on occasion, feels compelled to apologize for the fact that she might have been absent with work and career while I was trying to take care of something with the home or children. I typically neither express nor feel blame towards her for any absence because, after all, she is doing her job, and I, in truth, am trying to do mine. The kids are my job, though we may share the responsibility on the weekends and evenings. I have always taken my own work seriously and tried to do my best, and I think this is reflected in my history. However, kids are another story entirely, I find. At least, that should be the case. If they are my job, as I believe they are, and if they are not performing up to expectations, as the logic goes, however fallible it may be, then I am failing at my job. This pervasive, unexpressed thought and feeling plagues my mind and, I think, contributes to the age I’m beginning to feel, if I’m honest.

I recently had the privilege of taking part in a podcast in acknowledgement of National Adoption Month. I and two of my former colleagues shared our experiences and challenges with one another and with listeners, each of us at various stages and having approached adoption from a different point of origin and with different family dynamics. At one point in the discussion, however, we all agreed that our adoption experience required the adjustment of expectations for our children. Trauma almost always affects development in one or many of the aspects of a person, and especially during the most formative years of a child. What one will need to address with one’s children plays out gradually; issues may manifest themselves inconveniently over days, weeks, months, or even years while you attempt to connect and become a family. Plan and hope for the best, but be prepared for the fact that expectations you have long had for your own personal standards of success may need to be jettisoned in order to redefine what success is for your kids.

I confess that I forget this almost daily. And I often feel a failure at my job because of it, which, it would seem, is unfair not only to my kids but also to me. Oh, how we beam with pride when our kids take the trophy, applauding ourselves for our skilled and focused, intentional parenting. Just as easy to take the blame, though, as I’ve found innumerable times, if they don’t, or if they fail to meet standards, whether they be of your own creation or of others. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — the criticism I used to privately harbor against parents has largely disappeared since I’ve become one; many parents often take far too much credit and blame for their kids, I’m convinced.

Our van is currently undergoing repairs and has been for the last couple of days, even as I wait to find out if I require any repairs for my aged knee. We purchased it on the very day we met our children for the first time over seven years ago, driving home from the visit with delight and, dare I say, expectations. In a very real sense, the van is, for me, a visible representation of my parenting experience. It feels like a war buddy, replete with battle scars visible from every chosen angle. It’s pure function and no fun, but I knew what I was getting into; at least, I thought I did. The only thing missing is a simple, modest and plain bumper sticker I happened to notice on the back of another former childless fellow’s minivan, the message issuing an excuse, or apology, for his chosen make and model: “I used to be cool.”

“It’s not the years but the mileage,” the saying goes. I’ve known plenty of drivers who have faithfully kept their vehicles for a greater number of years, but 209,000 miles is more than I’ve traveled in any of mine. It’ll be fixed soon enough and back on the road for school and sports practice dropoffs, grocery store runs, and doctor visits. The day is fast approaching to put it to pasture, and I will be pleased and relieved to find myself driving a fresh set of wheels, but I won’t be surprised if I shed a tear or two, soulless though it may be. It’s done its job, dings and dents notwithstanding. To the contrary, such imperfections, perhaps, serve as evidence of a job well-done.

If so, I ought to take heed. I do believe parenting has aged me and will continue to; I’m sure others would agree for themselves. Stress ages us, and we all stress over success. Daily redefining success, moreover, for this adoptive parent is a challenge, I confess, that I fall short on. And it’s seldom with parenting as one’s primary job that you receive feedback about a job well-done, unlike the professional world. I pray my own dings and dents, in time, will be evidence of not simply years but the miles successfully traveled, however that may look for our own kids.