The joys of fatherhood at 61

Being the 61-year-old father of a half American, half Vietnamese, beautiful newborn girl is both exhilarating and exhausting.
The exhilaration comes from seeing Joanna pucker her lips and stick out her tongue to breastfeed. Or it comes from watching her sleep and kick off every blanket and towel she's wrapped in. Yesterday, she grabbed her own hair so hard she started crying, and she wouldn't let go. I had to literally pry her fingers open to make her let go of her hair. Phuong was concerned and wanted to put gloves on Joanna , but I laughed and kept watching my daughter. I say no gloves or hat at this stage -- two weeks old -- because she spends almost all of her time in our second-floor bedroom with her mom. Joanna loves her daily bath, and she has already kicked off her little belly button cord somehow. She loves to kick and stretch, and thankfully all signs point to a normal and very healthy baby girl. I think back to my first two daughters and remember how fantastic it was seeing them grow, learn, and develop into wonderful women.
Now for the slightly exhausting parts of my new life. First of all, I'm 61. Just the thought makes me tired. And there's the lack of sleep caused by Joanna's demand for mom's milk. But this is to be expected. As for me not getting enough sleep, so what. I'll sleep when I die. I've returned to work, which is a little tiring, but almost all of the students have been extremely cool about the new addition to our family. Because Phuong had a C-section, her mobility is quite limited. This means I do all the cooking, laundry and cleaning. I'm in a good rhythm with all the chores, and I really enjoy cooking, although I sweat a lot in Vietnam's god-awful heat. But I've gotten creative with fish and pork and cooking with beer, as well as making different smoothies and ice drinks. The part that's most difficult about the cooking and chores is the stairs. The Vietnamese may be the stare masters, but I'm the real stair master. I estimate I go up and down our three flights of stairs about 12 to 15 times a day. Our washing machine is on the third floor. So is the printer for my school work. When I carry food to Phuong on the second floor, I inevitably forget something crucial, like chopsticks or a fork ... or the main course. But I'm excited to go up the stairs because I know I'll see Phuong and my daughter. I hate going down the stairs because it hurts my ankles and usually means I have to do the dishes.  But maybe my fitness will improve a little.
Speaking of fitness, I still do my daily walk, and I've expanded it a little so I can buy milk from a store near my coffee shop. The park I often write about has gotten a little seedy -- no shock there. A guy was in the park training his chicken for chicken fighting; another guy sleeps there every day; and a group of guys play cards there daily.  Now, I do my chi at home when there's time.
The great news, after Joanna, is that I'm still not smoking. I haven't had a cigarette in more than four months and I have no desire to start smoking again. Well, maybe when I'm 70.