Fatherhood Turned My Self-Perception Upside Down in Unforeseen Ways

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A sudden moment of clarity.

Even though it’s been a year and a half since I became a dad, when someone addresses me as “father,” it still feels like they’re joking, as if they’re using air quotes. It’s not that I’m too young for parenthood—at 50, I’m quite the opposite. Yet, inside, I often feel like my son Max and I are more like buddies, and my partner, Sarah, despite being younger, often seems like the true adult in our home.

This isn’t just because I have a tendency to crawl around on the floor with Max, to the point where he may confuse me for an older sibling or a quirky pet monkey. It’s more about my inner self still feeling like a teenager. When Sarah tells Max, “Do you want Daddy to read you a bedtime story?” I can’t shake the feeling that we’re all sharing a funny inside joke. How can I, a guy who still giggles at silly cartoons, be someone’s dad? It’s a playful charade we all engage in, and I often end up reading to him in a silly voice, maybe leaving no lasting damage from my secret belief. Though I did teach him how to drool recently.

This peculiar stunted growth in my identity isn’t confined to fatherhood. I still look around when someone calls me “sir” at an airport or restaurant. I feel like Tom Hanks in Big, a pretender who’s amused that the world treats me like an adult while I still enjoy childhood whimsies like Mad Magazine and collecting stickers. Despite my age and physical changes, I somehow never shook off that boyish essence—and yes, I’m still crawling under the kitchen table with Max.

But yesterday, something profound happened. While visiting my parents, we sat under the shade of towering trees as Max splashed around, naked, in a plastic tub. The warm, lazy breeze barely stirred the branches above us, and the humid summer air seemed to stretch time itself as I had a sudden epiphany. I realized that while I may not feel a psychological need to embrace fatherhood, Max genuinely needs me to step into that role.

Having just embarked on his journey through this vast world, Max doesn’t call me “dad” with irony. He relies on me to be the steadfast figure that my own father was for me—someone who embodies kindness, patience, and unwavering support. Even if I’m lost in my own youthful fantasies, I can’t forget that fatherhood is a dance that requires two partners. In this relationship, I’m not the star. My own needs were met by my dad; now, it’s my turn to be someone else’s rock.

The qualities I once thought defined my identity—being the center of attention—must yield to something quietly heroic. But that doesn’t mean being a dad is a mundane chore. Fatherhood offers its own kind of thrill, a chance to shine in a different light by being the anchor for another’s ship as it sets sail.

As Max learns to navigate his own little adventures in that plastic tub, I’m struck by the realization that this isn’t some cosmic prank. This is my family. I am a father.

To celebrate this revelation, I stood up and poured a bucket of water over my son, a playful act my own father would never have done but one I felt compelled to try, perhaps driven by some long-buried instinct. After all, it’s something I might have done to my own younger brother.

As Max giggled and splashed, delighted by the bubbles dancing around him—fleeting moments just like this one—I realized he sees the two adults watching him as perfectly normal, fully qualified parents. And honestly, he was kind of asking for it.

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In summary, fatherhood has reshaped my self-image in unexpected ways, revealing that while I may not feel like a traditional dad inside, my son Max depends on me to embody that role. It’s a journey where I must learn to balance my youthful spirit with the responsibility of being a reliable parent.