Single Fatherhood at 52: Love, Boundaries, and Life with a Baby Who Runs the House
I know, I know — this is on me.
I did this to myself. With my own hands, and a level of immaturity I’m almost proud of, I created a tiny dictator and willingly appointed myself as her devoted servant.
“A good man always knows his limitations.”
I first heard that line as a kid, in Magnum Force, delivered by Clint Eastwood with that unmistakable blend of calm authority and quiet certainty — the kind that stays with you for forty years.
As I get older, that sentence keeps resurfacing, usually at moments when I once again fail to live up to the endless expectations I set for myself.
In hindsight, I had no idea how thoroughly that sentence would be put to the test — by one very small baby girl.
Nothing has ever felt more accurate than the day Sara was born and took over my life without asking permission, in the most natural way imaginable, as if it were her birthright. The takeover was immediate and absolute. From the very first moment, it was clear this was a lost battle: there is nothing my aging, 52-year-old self would deny her.
Who would have guessed that such a tiny, inexperienced human could identify a weakness in a grown man — and then exploit it with quiet precision?
Not just spot it, but drain it. Every ounce of compliance. Any hour. Any situation.
If we’re connecting this back to the title, my limitation is painfully simple:
I struggle to set boundaries with Sara.
This is especially true when it comes to her greatest passion — being held in her father’s arms.
Don’t get me wrong: there is nothing I love more. There is no experience more calming, more bonding, more addictive. Fueled by my own childish enthusiasm, I almost always preferred holding her. She, in turn, adopted the habit immediately — especially the ritual where I would gently rock her to sleep in my arms before placing her in her crib.
She has a preferred position: her back against me, one of my hands supporting her legs, the other resting on her belly — a human rocking chair by design.
Eventually, that wasn’t enough. Sara demanded that I do this standing up, pacing around the apartment, as if I were giving her a guided tour of our very modest two-bedroom home.
I was so focused on the joy I got from her joy that I failed to notice I was creating habits. It didn’t take long for her to understand that even the hint of an upcoming cry was enough to get me back on my feet.
And me? I was proud to be her devoted servant — completely wrapped around her finger.
During the first month after her birth, I moved back in with my parents to “learn the trade” from my mother, a certified caregiver. Back then, everything was easier. My mother and I took shifts caring for Sara. She weighed just under six pounds, and I even slept sometimes.
My mother — who, I’m convinced, loves Sara at least as much as I do, if not more — warned me repeatedly: this habit will break your back.
Of course, she was right.
Real life began when, after a month at my parents’ home, Sara and I finally moved into my apartment.
She now weighs over eleven pounds, and my arms feel every ounce of it. I sleep far less. In a state of chronic exhaustion, I was surprised to discover that Sara shows very little empathy for my condition. As an experienced dictator, she orders me — in her sweet but firm baby language — to pick her up and not even consider putting her down.
If I attempt to demonstrate some backbone and place her in the crib while she’s still awake, she immediately launches into a piercing cry, fully aware that I’ll surrender. The crib, I assume, feels to her like a small prison.
There are moments when both body and mind say, “Enough.” Especially in the evenings. Especially with a sore back, tired knees, and a growing sense of accelerated aging. And then — right at the breaking point — Sara flashes a disarming smile that somehow injects a fresh supply of energy into my system, allowing me to survive yet another night.
I suspect part of my devotion comes from a desire to compensate for the absence of a mother. To give her the attention of two parents — and perhaps a little more than one person can realistically carry. A baby who gets everything she wants often grows into a strong, confident child, even if she happens to be the only one in daycare without a mom.
If I break my back along the way, so be it.
Still, recently I’ve noticed a small shift. Slow. Careful. But real. I’m learning that if I try hard enough, I can sometimes withstand her iron will. She cries — and then she calms down. I borrowed a simple technique from my mother: a pacifier, a gentle stroke on the head, and deep breaths — mine.
And so, little by little, I’m learning a simple and painful truth:
if I want to take care of her, I have to take care of myself too.
To be clear, I’m not saying I created a monster.
I’m just saying she runs the place — and I happily report to her.
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
If something in this story stayed with you, you’re welcome to stay in touch.
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Sara and Me 