When I became a father, I was the oldest first-time dad I knew

When I became a father, I was 39 and a half, and the oldest first-time dad I knew. It was a moment of reappraisal, of changing nappies, of endless hours pushing a stroller around the streets at odd times. Then, one by one, others in my friendship peer group – men I went to school with, grew up with – followed suit.

My boys have watched me furnish our homes, move from one small rental to another, make our household furniture, scrabble for work, make mistakes, take wrong turns.

Bobby, a jack-of-all-trades, was 40 and a bit years old when he first became a dad. Miles, a physician, was 43 years and 10 months. Adam, a tiler, was 44 and eight months.

Dave, a carpenter (he calls himself a “wood butcher”) was 46 and a half. Kieran, a chef, had turned 50 when he welcomed sweet Alice into the world. All of us Generation Xers, we’ve upped the averages, testing the limits of when we might become dads.

I can’t speak for their experiences, nor the myriad reasons fatherhood has been delayed. Social demographers might work backwards from peak fertility in Australia (1961), and motherhood at its youngest (1971) – each occurring five years either side of peak home ownership in 1966.

But from first-hand knowledge, middle-aged fatherhood comes with deep intimacy and great inquiry. Or maybe that’s just me.

Since separation, my boys have seen their father in difficult times. They’ve been with me every other week, all the way, watched me furnish our homes, move from one small rental to another, make our household furniture, scrabble for work, make mistakes, take wrong turns.

But I am older, wiser, and being without only brings us closer together. They share a bedroom at my place, and at night we pile on one of the beds for a three-way wrestle (we call it “manhandling”) and make a human sandwich (I’m always the bread on the bottom), and they ask me to tell stories of my childhood, and only after giving them each a “pummel” (a crude back massage) will they let me leave. My love for them is hands-on. It’s tactile. And I’m never afraid to show it.

Around the kitchen table, we talk – about the affairs of the day, what’s on our minds, about stuff – and I tell them I’m writing a story about fatherhood and ask them to rate me as a dad.

Mr 12yo is emphatic: 10.

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Mr 9yo: 9.999999.

I ask him why I was docked. “Because of all the excursions you make us do,” he says. “You’re always wanting to take us places.”

With age comes experience. In choices I’ve made, I cannot provide for my boys many of the things my father gave me. But I can give them my time, and my availability, and a willingness to show them other things, take them elsewhere. It is what a father does, how a childhood can be.

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