Forever Young: Why Rod Stewart Puts Me in a Parenting Predicament
There is a specific kind of emotional imbalance that occurs when certain songs hit the speakers in the car. For some, it might be a Springsteen anthem or a Dylan ballad, but for those of us navigating the middle innings, Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” is the one that really gets me. It isn’t just a catchy tune with a mandolin; it’s a full-blown existential crisis wrapped in gravel.
Whenever those first few bars start, the internal compass starts spinning. Am I the son in this story, still looking up at a father who seemed ten feet tall? Or am I the father, looking down at my own kids and wondering if I remembered to pack enough wisdom in their suitcases? Turns out, I’m both. And trying to exist in both spaces at once is a little emotionally messy.
“May the good Lord be with you down every road you roam…”
When Rod kicks off the song with that line, my mind immediately jumps to my old man. I am convinced I have the greatest father in the world — bold claim, I know, but I’ve checked the stats and the math checks out. He has always been the one standing behind me, teaching me the difference between right and wrong, and, more importantly, the difference between doing what’s easy and doing what’s right.
Growing up, that was the law of the land. My dad didn’t just tell me how to behave; he showed me. He’s the kind of guy who has my back whether I’m pursuing a straight-laced career or becoming a comic, which is basically the “vagabond” option on the career menu. I honestly hope I can pass down even 10% of what he taught me to my own kids. If I can manage to be half of what he is to me, I’ll consider my parenting career a win.
It’s a strange feeling to be a grown man with a mortgage and a salt-and-pepper beard, yet still feel like that kid who needs his dad’s nod before making a big move. But that’s the power of a good father: they become the internal voice that guides you long after you’ve left the house.
“And may you grow to be proud, dignified and true…”
These lyrics hit on a philosophy I try to live by: leave the place nicer than you found it. Most people think of that physically — pick up your trash, don’t wreck the hotel room like a rock star in a bad sitcom — but it applies just as much to people and emotions.
I want my kids to grow up with that same sense of dignity. I don’t care if they end up doing neurosurgery or competitive unicycling, as long as they’re “dignified and true” while doing it. My hope is that when they walk out of a room, a relationship, or a quick supermarket chat, the other person feels a little bit better than they did before.
Happiness isn’t a destination; it’s a byproduct of how you treat people. (Though, let’s be honest, I’m lazy, so I only manage to be emotionally uplifting a couple of times a month.) If I can teach them that goodness is a choice you make every morning, I’ll feel like the song’s prayer is doing its job.
“Build a stairway to heaven with a prince or a vagabond…”
This lyric is essentially my life story in ten words. For years, I was the quintessential vagabond. I traveled the world, told jokes in sweaty clubs, and lived out of a suitcase with no permanent address. I was a nomad by trade and by choice.
Then I found Angie. And then came the kids.
Suddenly, the nomad had a home base. I didn’t stop traveling — touring is still the lifeblood of what I do — but my perspective shifted. I became what I call a “Domestic Nomad.” It’s actually the title of my latest comedy special because it captures that weird duality: one night I’m under stage lights in a city I can’t quite pronounce, and the next morning I’m negotiating with a toddler about why we can’t have ice cream for breakfast. (I mean, we can, we just shouldn’t.)
The “stairway” isn’t built with riches; it’s built with the connections you keep. Whether I’m hanging out with high-rolling industry types or fellow road comics, the only thing that keeps me grounded is the family I come back to. Being a good husband and father is the hardest gig I’ve ever booked, but the payoff actually matters.
“And when you finally fly away…”
The final section of the song is where it really gets you. Rod sings about the moment the kid finally flies away, and the parent hopes they served them well. It’s a gut-punch.
I think back to when I first left home. My dad was right there, the wind beneath my wings. He let me go, but he never stopped watching the horizon. Now, I see my own kids growing up at a speed that defies physics, and I realize I’ll eventually be the one standing on the ground, watching them take off.
Whatever road they choose, I want them to know I’m right behind them. Win or lose, prince or vagabond. We spend the first half of our lives being the young ones and the second half trying to make sure the next generation stays forever young in spirit.
