If it weren’t for the children, I would get old. D.J., Dakota, Aiden and Kylie have revived me. They’ve given me a shot at a second— no, third childhood. Without them I would waste away, turn inward even more than I already do and sort of consume myself with trying to crawl across the last bit of desert sand, until I’m gone, over the horizon forever.

That’s an awful burden to put on four small children, one of whom hasn’t even been born yet. The thing is, they don’t have to do anything to keep up their end of the deal. They just have to grow and learn and become themselves. Right now all I ask is a glimpse of the world through their innocent eyes. That’s enough to keep me young. Or at least alive.

The real burden is on the parents. I have no rights, and yet I am indulged. Whatever I bring to the mix, it’s not nearly as much as I get back from it. I’ve got nothing to offer in exchange for stories about the latest advances, breakthroughs and epiphanies. With three (plus one), there’s something almost every day, and I’m grateful for occasionally being allowed to be part of the whole glorious process.

I went through this once before, about half my lifetime ago. It was thirty years ago this fall when Suzanne told me that Eric was on the way. That news, and the next ten or fifteen years that followed, were the best I ever had, and all I had to do was be there as Eric and David grew up. And now, just in the nick of time, it’s happening all over again.