My three sons

In the 1960s (oops! Up come my wrinkles and laugh lines), there was a television series called My Three Sons. I remember the series because whenever the father figure (Fred MacMurray) would gripe about the high (and low) jinks his three sons would get themselves into, and wax rhapsodically about how a daughter would have made a world of difference; I would have absolutely no sympathy for him. Being a young boy, I envied the household with all the testosterone levels and wondered why in Neilsen’s ratings’ name would you care to have girls in the picture? Little did I know that 40 years down the line, I’d find myself in good ole Fred’s peculiar predicament.

I’m three summers shy of having spent a half-century shuffling this mortal coil; but because of a late marriage (I was 35) and a much younger wife, I have three boys, aged 10, 8 and 3 (Quintin, Matteo and Luca). Trish has always been asked what it’s like marrying (and back then, dating) someone considerably older, and I’ve always maintained that it was dead easy given how retarded and immature I was/am. Along with the age difference between Trish and myself, the three boys have been the key to my discovering my own version of Ponce de Leon’s fabled fountain of youth. Bob Dylan has always been a favorite and the lyrics that seem so apropos now come from the song My Back Pages – Ah! But I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now. A conundrum if ever there was one, but be my age, have three young boys, be forced to accept that you either go with THEIR flow or get swept aside, and you’ll understand exactly what Mr. Robert Zimmerman (Bob’s true name) meant.

What am I talking about? Well, there are several ways to approach life. One can gracefully accept the inevitability of aging or one can indulge in a modified Dorian Gray process. Having the three boys has compelled me to choose the latter. Now, let’s establish this is not an advisory follow-me, I’m-a-guru piece. I eschew self-help columns, reams of the obvious for the natural born cynic I am. So, make of this what you may if you are amused, can empathize or decide to dismiss it as enlightened (or unenlightened) foolishness that’s all fine with me.

The three boys have been my "secret weapons." They’ve been constant sources of joy, wonderment and adjustment; and they keep me "thinking young." I could have easily opted to just crack the whip and let my age be an excuse; but instead I’m cracking my bones keeping up with them.

And believe me, I don’t regret it a bit. October and the Little League baseball season has me chasing flyballs and running bases as I help coach their baseball teams. The other week was Matteo’s "swim and slide" birthday party and so I was playing lifeguard to 20 screaming, rough-housing children, jumping on the trampoline, clambering up and cradling Luca on my lap on the 20-foot inflatable slide we brought in for the party. Even had a procession of kids standing on my shoulders, from where they’d jump into the pool. When you consider how other Dads my age play "sitting statue" or pose as lounge lizards at children’s parties, it makes for a change, even if it’s an exhausting one-by day’s end.

What else does "keeping up with the three boys" mean? When I got Nike Prestos for Quintin, I had to get a pair for myself. I can name at least 15 of the Pokemon characters (come on, there’s got to be a limit somewhere). I even know who Mr. Side Table Drawer and Steve are (Blue’s Clues). I was scrambling for opening day tickets for Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Spiderman, Ice Age, the latest Star Wars installment; and you can bet your last rejuvenating pill that I’ll be there for Scooby Doo later this week. We have the DVDs of the Matrix and X-Men and have watched them at least a hundred times – literally, scout’s honor.

Down, down, downside? I’ve sat through Rat Race and Little Nicky; which I’ve decided are forms of cruel and unusual punishment. Just to appease their cries for conformity and togetherness, and to allow Trish and the boys make a fool of me, I wore a bandanna along with the three boys one summer outing. Unfortunately, it made me look more like some male Sea Hag (remember the Popeye cartoons?), then someone from Limp Bizkit. But hey, when Warner Music came around asking if Dish would host Michelle Branch, I actually knew her songs and knew what she looked like (Ara Mina doppelganger, right?). When I celebrated my birthday one April night, the two older boys egged me to go on stage and sing with the band Pido with Take One. Well, their jaws fell when the next song turned out to be In the End of Linkin Park; and so what if all I could do was join in for the chorus. Sure beats the only other time I sang in public this year; at Trish’s sister-in-law’s party, when after a procession of crooning Frank Sinatra wanna-bes, Dondi Teehankee and I did an upbeat rendition of Ashes to Ashes. And you know what? I can tell the difference between the Game Cube, the X Box and PlayStation 2.

It’s not pixie dust or some Peter Pan complex; I don’t have a Lost Boy mantra of "Don’t want to grow old" and you know, the oldest and jaded I ever felt was when at the age of 20, I had that "know it all" change the world‚ cocky attitude to life. You grow older and wiser and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that maturity can be grossly overrated. One hears clichés about holding on to the "child in you‚" and if it takes my three boys to help me achieve this and balance out the levity and seriousness life has in store for us, I’ll be eternally grateful for their presence in my life. The other day, Matteo asked me how old I was and he was surprised to hear 47. "Old?" I asked him; and he replied as only he can, "Don’t worry, Poppa, I thought you were much younger, 46." Besides, I can’t deny I’m getting there when Luca’s way of expressing his love to the max comes in at "I love you 24."

So we hear about how kids are spitting images of their father or mother, how they’re their father’s sons; but for me, the reverse can be just as true and commendable. I’m my kids‚ father, and if it’ll take a Father’s Day to remind me just how much I owe these three rascals, then so be it.

Wonder if there’ll ever be a Children’s Day; mine deserve it 47 and more, just don’t tell them.