The older man sitting in the room was handed the newborn baby.

His eyes widened, a bit alarmed. There was reluctance, but the babe was nestled in his arms and they locked eyes. The man looked up and around the room. Everyone was smiling, in awe of new life.

He turned back to the swaddled human being who smiled and gurgled. The old man offered what a lifetime had taught him: “Enjoy the ride, kid.”

That was a moment unfolding on the TV. A simple scene. Been done many times in various ways. But this one did something to me. I kept thinking about that moment when new life, soon to be crawling and climbing, meets a life that is shuffling down a slope in time.

I saw myself. As the old man ... but also the babe, just beginning to explore a new world. Because I was that babe once. I thought about my years growing up. I strained to remember details. But I must rely on photos – me standing under a cowboy hat, with a pistol, holster at my side. I looked happy.

I put myself in that chair, being handed a baby, eyes connecting. Not really connecting, but still ... beautiful, curious, innocent eyes ready to begin whatever. Eyes you begin to talk to. Eyes that need to hear. And there’s so much to tell.

I remember standing, stuck, looking down at each of my three sons in their cribs. Wondering about their life to come. Whatever words of wisdom I offered were only whispers in the noise in their room.

When my second son was born, I wrote about it. I reread those words today. It was Father’s Day, and he was a 5-week-old baby. I snuck into his room. He was sleeping, fists clenched and feet tucked up like a turtle, not bothered by the nearby hum of voices or loud laughter.

So much filled my heart. Thoughts I wrote down for him and his older brother (from a first marriage) to read years later. I was telling him about his older brother, then 18 years old. How I watched him grow and mature and take control of his life. Then I told him this:

“Perhaps it’s because of you that I now find myself looking back at your brother’s baby pictures and records of his youth, trying to unravel the miracle of growing up. I think of the differences in the two of you. He is taller than me and may grow more. His arms show muscle and are no longer fragile, and his thoughts are very private.

“Your eyes have not learned to focus. Your arms and legs just play in the air with untrained muscles. Perhaps the saddest difference is that I can hold you as close as I want and study you and memorize everything about you. I really can’t do that anymore with your brother, and it also will stop when you, too, become a man.

“My strongest wish now is that you and your brother become close friends someday. I want you to know that your brother had a lot to do with your being here today. Because it is my love for him that removed all doubt that I would want another son.

“Lying there, you seem such a gentle gift, but I know there will be plenty of pain, fear and frustration. But because of your brother, I also have learned it is all worthwhile.

“I know you will be different. Not better or worse, but different. ... But even more exciting is knowing that now the world will be different also. ... because I had two sons. … And if time teaches anything, it is the importance of family.”

And ... my family grew. I have three sons now. All men nurturing me more than I am allowed to nurture them. I am that old man in the chair, holding a baby and wishing I could start over. Wondering why time was in such a hurry.

But I had my moment. That’s what it feels like. A moment. That’s the message, I guess. Seize the day and all that. It’s hard to appreciate that until the journey is nearly over. That old man said it best, said it all.

“Enjoy the ride, kid.”

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail the NewsTribune, 426 Second St., La Salle IL 61301.