Discovering a new way to measure age

Quick, how many age-related cliches can you quote?

You’re only as old as you feel.

Age is just a number.

I’m having a senior moment.

You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.

Or my personal favorite, the twist on this last one which was used by the “Keenagers” senior adult ministry at our church in Central Florida: You’re not getting older, you’re getting keener.

I could go on. 

The truth is, not even my own birthday marks the passage of time like the aging of my kids.

I was rudely confronted with this fact this week when our oldest son, Barron, turned 25. My mother also shared with me that she used MY age to communicate to an old friend just how much she had aged since they last communicated.

The former I’m happy to celebrate. It’s natural for your kids to grow up and mature and become adults and stuff. The latter felt like a low blow. It’s one thing to tell someone how old you are, but to convince them of the passage of time by throwing your AARP-eligible son under the bus? That’s uncalled for.

All this prompted me to contemplate the real metrics of aging. At some point after age 50, I stopped calculating my age by birthdays. I enjoy having birthdays, don’t get me wrong. It’s fun for our family to get together, have a nice meal, share stories and receive thoughtful gifts. But my birthday doesn’t really make me feel older.

That happens in much starker ways with the aging of my children. One of Christmas gifts from the boys this year was the digitizing of our old Hi-Eight video tapes in which we captured all of their early life milestones in the pre-ubiquitous cell phone videoing era. We have enjoyed watching and re-living these moments.

I can’t help but notice as I swaddle baby Barron, there is no “blond” at my temples. The laugh lines at the edges of my eyes and mouth are not yet permanent grooves. The scars of skin cancer removals do not yet mark my face with… character.

Of course, Barron is in a diaper and footie pajamas, which I’m sure he has some feelings about. He’s driving a Cozy Coupe around Flintstone-style with his bare feet rather than his Nissan Frontier pickup truck. He’s ducking in and out of his Thomas the Tank Engine tent rather than installing new crown molding in his own house. These videos reveal his own maturity in dramatic fashion.

Each year on my birthday, my parents make the same joke about me “catching up” to them. This year as my oldest reaches the quarter century mark, I realize this isn’t a joke. This is a reflection of how we see ourselves. No, I don’t think of myself as 25 any more. Knee surgery, repeated muscle injuries and back pain, inability to sleep through the night, and making cost comparisons of products I purchased in my youth all help me know I’ve aged.

But there’s something to this idea that your kids catch up to you at least when it comes to your stage of life. I’ve not yet retired, so for the moment, Barron and I are both just a couple of working stiffs, out here trying to make a living, put a roof over our heads, feed and clothe ourselves, and find ways to stay connected with loved ones. This will only become more pronounced as he moves through life’s other inevitable milestones of marriage, having kids, job changes, and getting his own Netflix account.

I don’t think of myself as having “caught up” to my parents. They are retired and using doctor’s appointments and church to remember what day of the week it is. I’m still heavily scheduled by work and juggling lots of responsibilities that require an exact awareness of time.

But Barron and I do feel a little closer on the life milestones timeline. I’m guessing the sweet spot when your kids “catch up” happens when they’re all out of the house, out of school, working, starting families, and off your health insurance while you are still working. There’s no real age parameter to delineate this season of life. It’s based on how you are spending your days.

Grandkids may or may not be gamechanger, I don’t yet know. That may be the next real event horizon that causes me to stare my own mortality in the face. The first time someone calls me “Grampa” unironically may be my graduation to the next level of aging. It’s hard for me to imagine.

I can’t wait to hear about my mom telling her friends THAT bit of news.

Happy 25th birthday, Barron! I’m glad you are our son and that you’re catching up to us in life. And I promise, I won’t throw you under the bus to prove how old I am by writing a blog post about it. It’ll just be our little secret.