I’m not old. I don’t feel old. I don’t think I look old. Well, I guess I look kind of old.

It’s been so strange waiting to become a parent. I feel like I’ve been living like an arrested young adult, permanently in my late 20s. Well, that’s not really right, either. I stopped doing young guy stuff years ago — going to see bands late at night, for example.

Now I’m a dad and I’m happy to finally be here. One long, well-worn phase of my life is over. It makes me a little sad to think about it, but I’m mostly glad it’s over. Finn is already adding so much more to my life than what I’ve lost. To put it in baseball terms, he has a very high value over replacement.

I am worried, though, about my advanced age at becoming a first-time father. I’m 44 years old. I’ll be 62 when he graduates from high school!

But I come from a long line of (relatively) older parents. My grandfather, were he alive today, would be turning 120 this year. His father was born before the Civil War.

I think there are advantages, both to me and to Finn, of being an older dad. I hope that I’m going to be more patient and less reactive as he grows up. Maybe a bit wiser, too. I’m more financially secure and probably more ready to leave my old life behind.

But I worry about my energy levels, about being 20 years older than his friends’ parents (not likely; old parents seem to be a trend). I also worry about my longevity. When he’s graduating from college, I might be starting my retirement.

Oh well. As my father-in-law used to say, it is what it is.