What it's like to be an older dad

• John Foley%3A My son%2C Sean%2C has no idea his old man is an old man
• Perhaps I appreciate my time with him more%2C knowing I'll have less than others
• It's made me a better teacher%2C as I see my son's traits in my high-school students

When I take my 6-year-old son, Sean, to the playground, no one gives me a second glance. Not until Sean calls me "Daddy." Then I get a few quick peeks from the other parents in the park. I know what they're thinking: The old dude is the little guy's father?

Most of the parents are a couple of decades younger than me, and unless Sean spills the beans, they assume I'm his grandfather. They address each other in casual terms but call me "Sir."

The grandfather assumption doesn't bother me. I'm 54 years old and, as my wife, Jules, likes to point out, my gray-white beard makes me look even older.

In any case, Sean is blithely unaware that his old man is an old man. And I feel blessed to have a child somewhat late in life, after assuming it wasn't in the cards.

Not that it's all circuses and superheroes. Like all young kids, Sean can be a handful some days. He's a picky eater, and I especially dislike the nightly negotiations over fruits and vegetables — as well as the main course.

Some things are far easier. Camping, for instance. Sean likes hiking and sleeping in a tent, and especially the ghost stories I read around the campfire. "We don't have to worry about ghosts at this campground, Daddy," he said when I finished a story on our last trip. "They have really good security."

In such bonding activities, my life is similar to much-younger fathers' lives. Do I appreciate the times with my son more than they do, knowing I probably don't have as much time left? Perhaps.

I'm envious of some things I see younger men doing with their sons. Running, for instance. I ran until I was 40, but my knees and lower back can't handle the pounding anymore. Sean loves a good chase, and I can no longer catch him by mere speed walking. The last time I yielded to temptation and ran after him, I spent a week hunched over like Quasimodo.

Now I make up for my lack of speed with trickery. The ottoman and the dog make handy obstacles during chases, I've found, and since I know he likes a chase before his bath, I can arrange them beforehand. The ottoman, anyway. The dog doesn't always cooperate.

I don't think my trickery or my advanced years make me a better father than younger men. But maybe I'm a more observant one, primarily because I'm the last man in America without a cellphone. While the other dads are looking down, texting and what not, I'm looking up, and can thus discourage Sean from attempting a half-gainer off the monkey bars.

I do think my belated fatherhood has made me a better teacher. I've been teaching high-school kids for 22 years, and I used to joke that after 3 p.m. I didn't want to see any human beings under the age of 30. Now, I don't mind so much.

While my students are about a decade older than my son, I see so much of him in their goofy antics and quiet insecurities. It's given me more empathy for them as they struggle with the transition into adulthood.

Sean is learning to write this year, and with a little help from Jules, he recently composed his first letter. "Dear Tooth Fairy," his missive began, "I lost my tooth tonight! I would like a thousand dollars, please. Thank you! Your Friend, Sean Michael Foley."

They say with age comes wisdom, and I'm wise enough to admit that I'm often dumbfounded as a father. Wise enough, too, to defer to my wife on certain questions, such as when Sean paused while not eating his dinner to ask what the F-word was.

"That's a word we don't say," Jules instantly replied. "That's a naughty word."

"Why is it naughty if I don't even know what it means?" he inquired logically.

"Well, it just is."

A mischievous grin stole onto his face. "If you say the word, Mommy, I promise I won't tell anyone." Jules and I figured the promise would last until he reached his kindergarten class the next morning, whereupon we'd receive a concerned call from his teacher.

The F-word won't stay a mystery. Few things will. In the natural course he'll discover naughty words and dangerous places and unhealthy activities. Like parents everywhere, we hope his judgment keeps pace with his discoveries.

As for me, I hope to remain his old man a very long time.

John Foley of Prescott Valley is a teacher, novelist and freelance writer.