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Oh, my, God.

Since turning 50 I have to admit at feeling a bit, well, old. Old as in the I'm-as-old-as-my-parents-once-were sense, which is a kind of sickly sense of being closer to the thing some of us try to avoid discussing, much less thinking, about. Yet with the ragged face staring back at me in the mirror it's difficult not to entertain the notion for bit.

I admit to going a bit off when 50 came around. One of the first things that hit me was that I would probably not hold down a regular job again, at least not unless something drastic happened. I am the at-home parent for the duration, we have decided. I felt that at 50 I'm most likely missing out on honing the modern skills to do what I do with the same efficiency that any level entry pup can manage. For so long I measured my self by what I did, but now, taking care of the kids, what have I become?

Begin mid-life crisis.

I'm not sure how long I stared there wondering which was the worse mistake, the piercings or the hand cream, and hoping I hadn't done more narcissistic, desperate age-defying silliness of which I simply was not yet aware. Since taking on the role of stay-at-home-papa things had changed a lot, but my perspective on change did not include in what manner I might be like my parents. But when I pressed the issue through my internal dialog it appeared to me that I was more like them than I thought.

I shudder at the thought that I could become my father as his cruel life provided him little perspective and little appreciation for the values I hold so dear. But, in fairness, there are definite aspects of his behavior which inform my behavior today.

I often entertain Hannah with stories about the grandfather she never knew. My father, Walter, died several years before she was born so she only knows him through the stories I've told her. Usually these stories resemble parables about choosing right from wrong, something my father could never do with much success, so stories about him have become the de facto moral equivalent of every hard lesson ever learned. I never knew he could do so much good.

My mother, on the other hand, is interesting in different ways. Like many women of my mother's generation, hers was of surviving in a tougher man's world with fewer opportunities and greater intolerance for a woman's dreams of a better life.

The fact that I think I'm looking and acting more like her every day should perhaps cause me some reason for celebration, that I have indeed not become my father. But of course I haven't become either. Or have I?

When my father lost his job due to his poor health he took up the apron and Kirby vacuum and began his days anew by packing lunches for his early teen sons, my brother and me, stuffing both whites and colors into the Maytag load, dusting off his bowling trophies – yes, he became a house-husband to his utter humiliation. He too defined himself by what he did and this work, serving his wife and kids, told him he was less than a man.

My mother's life has been mostly spent serving others. She served her mother and her mother's wishes. She served my father and her four kids without argument or fuss and with a coping cheerfulness that could be mistaken for a Pollyanna imitation until you get to know her.

In a glorious moment of clarity she knew she needed to move on from my father, but even in her new situation she served, yet in much less fear and with the same cheerfulness. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer her mood never wavered from her positive bent on things and her mission to serve. While she recovered from surgery we laughed about her personal loss in a way that others might find tragic, but from her perspective, life means so much even if she has to live it with “one less piece of equipment.” My father was not as fortunate to look upon his losses with such insight.

On his death bed my father's perspective had changed little over the years. He spoke of regret and sadness and loss. His world was dark and unflattering, full of what could be but never was. What my mother sees as opportunity he saw as defeat. My mother survived cancer, my father did not.

I gaze at my hands, looking so much like my father's, spotted from age and rough from years of manly inattention and now reeking of a sweet smell much like my mother's lingering cosmetic cornucopia and I realize I am an amalgam of who and how my parents were.

I must look upon my father's black hole of a life is a gift. The awareness that making better choices, having the awareness of the consequences of choice, is how to avoid a life of regret. It is a gift that I must surely pass down to my children if I've learned anything at all.

My mother's strength informs me that loss does not necessarily equal sadness. Indeed some of my mother's losses have meant an opportunity for laughter, a virtue I recall now looking again at my declining, untended hands and outrageously affected ear jewelery.

What a silly old man I am, and yet, in this moment, I am a happy, silly old man.