I'm 51. My Son Is 5. But Who's Counting?

Until you think about the alternative -- not having our children at all.

Then it gets tricky, doesn't it?

Max was born when I was 46. When he was 2, the doctors were all but certain that he was, as they euphemistically say, "on the spectrum" for autism -- meaning somewhere on the milder side of the group of disorders that fall under the autism umbrella. At 2, he didn't speak -- not even "Da-Da" or "Ma-Ma" or "Please step out of the way, I am trying to watch 'The Wiggles,' thank you" (which, if he could have talked, was probably the statement he would have started with). He wouldn't make eye contact and he spent hours lying on the floor, rolling a toy car back and forth in front of his face. Quite an agreeable activity, I must say, having tried it a few times, but put it all together and, our advisers told us, it probably spelled Asperger's disorder, the mildest form of autism. Friends tried to reassure us. "Einstein didn't talk until he was 3!" they offered, unaware that Einstein, along with Andy Warhol and Andy Kaufman and other late talkers, most likely had Asperger's.

As I confronted the possibility that Max was On The Spectrum, the strangest thought occurred to me: If he is, then so be it.

I adored this boy whose main utterance sounded something like "Joe Biden Go Baaden-Baaden," this child who called everything "baw." Whatever he was, I would love him no less. I was bonded deeply with him through our non-verbal days together, and no word -- not even "Asperger's" -- was powerful enough to come between us.

We did all the things that parents of potential Asperger's disorder children are told to do: We sent him to speech therapy, we ate every meal with him and -- shudder -- we got rid of all television and videos. Either as a result of these things (my perspective -- dads like to think we can fix things) or as a result of the passage of time (my wife's theory), Max suddenly started talking. And now, of course, never shuts up.

But when I hear the drumbeat of fear that men of a certain age are now facing as they contemplate fatherhood, I can't help hearing the backbeat, the questions carried in the undertone: What if I had been frightened away from fatherhood for fear of having an autistic child? What if I had decided not to Take a Chance With My Child's Health?

As I ponder those questions, a cackling imp with a Beatles haircut whacks me with a rubber baseball bat. And I am overcome with gratitude that I was foolhardy enough to take the chance and bring him into the world -- I can't even begin to contemplate a universe without him. So I'm brought back to our wonderful and risky reality, a reality in which, truth be told, we of the cracking DNA have a number of advantages over our younger, healthier, more risk-averse brethren.

Studies show that older fathers spend more time with our young children. The reason usually given for this is that we're more financially stable and have more leisure time. That does tend to be true, but this is the real reason: Too many of our friends here in Midlife City tell us tales of how busy they were when their teenagers were toddlers, and how sad they are not to have spent time with them when they had the chance. We older fathers have vowed not to let that happen to us.

There may be other advantages to older fatherhood: Some studies suggest that older men are more confident with their children, that they tend more often to be fathers by choice instead of by chance and that, with their (sigh) lower testosterone levels, they may be more nurturing. There is certainly a patience that comes with age -- or maybe older dads are just so bored with everything else that we're actually amused by our toddlers' endless recounting of recent observations ("Dad, do you know dogs don't eat pickles? They don't. Dad, did you know that? Daaad! Dogs don't like pickles, have I told you that before?"). Clearing your mind of the detritus of the day and just listening to your child is a great joy -- for both of you.

I hear litanies of complaints from some younger dads. They struggle with being unable to go to happy hour anymore because they're needed at home, with missing out on golfing on Saturday, with being unable to afford the babysitter so they can attend the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert at Verizon Center. Those concerns are no longer mine. We older dads have drunk enough, smoked enough, partied enough and everythinged enough. Yes, we can afford the babysitter -- my wife and I haven't missed our Tuesday night movie date since Max was about 2 months old -- but I'm more than happy just to plop down on the rug, pick up the nearest doll and announce, in my most metallic voice, "I am Robota from the planet Shmata. What toys will dare to play with me?"

Max will usually take it from there. He'll invent some game that we will play again and again and again. And I'll hang in there. For that, ultimately, is the gift of the older father: Because we know that there are fewer days ahead of us than behind, we cherish each one a little bit more. We know how quickly time rushes away. We appreciate, as we never could have in our salad days, how lucky we are to have this moment, here on the rug with this imp. And so we are able to listen and learn from our children the ultimate lesson -- how in one endless moment, endlessly repeated, we can learn to conquer time.

phil@dadditude.com

Philip Lerman is the author of the recently published "Dadditude: How a Real Man Became a Real Dad."