http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1391357/Leah-Hardy-used-delighted-delayed-pregnancy-says-I-mad-mid-life-mother.htmlAlmost ten years ago, I wrote a rather smug article for a glossy magazine extolling the virtues of late motherhood. At the age of 38 I’d just had my first child, and I waxed lyrical about how I felt it was the perfect age to embark upon motherhood.
In my 20s and early 30s, I had travelled, partied and had fun, I wrote, and was now ready for what I suppose I must have assumed was the duller, more restricted, and frankly, less fun life of being a mother.
I seem to recall congratulating myself on being calmer, more patient and less flighty than a younger mother would be.
My son, Henry, was born in 2002. Three years later, at the age of 41, I went on to have another child, my daughter Cecily, who is now six.
So do I count myself lucky? Yes, every single day. Would I write that article if I were 38 again? Absolutely not. In fact, I think I was completely wrong in what I felt and argued then. I also think I was fooling myself.
In an ideal world I would have had my children at least ten years earlier, and although it’s taboo to say so, most older mothers I know agree with me.
In part, it’s because, at the age of 47, I get tired in a way that I suspect would be far more bearable if I were ten years younger.
But, the real reasons are not physical, but emotional.
I feel haunted by the realisation that, by having my children late, I will miss out on so many years of parenthood — years that I will simply never see.
I didn’t understand how much I would love being a mother, how the hedonistic pleasures of travelling and partying would fade into insignificance compared with the simple miracle of being able to make, from scratch, my favourite people in the whole world. Two small people I love beyond words, who surprise me and make me laugh every day — and who fill my heart with happiness.
Of course, I am not alone in having a family at an age when previous generations of women might well have been grandmothers already.
Carla Bruni is reported to be pregnant at the age of 43, while Mariah Carey has just become the proud mother of twins at 42.
A report last year concluded that women in Britain leave it later than those in any other country to have their first child, and the number giving birth after their 40th birthday has trebled. Almost 27,000 babies were born to mothers over 40 in the UK in 2009 — nearly three times the total of 20 years ago, and up by 50 per cent over the past decade.
To be honest, I never thought much about my age until I had children. But now it’s a very different story.
I have become searingly aware of the vivid contrast between Cecily’s velvet little paw and my desiccated claw; her peach-perfect little body and my sagging, wilting one. Our physical differences have conspired to make me horribly aware of my own mortality.
Her hair is kissed with sunshine, while my golden shade is painted on over the grey hairs, which sprout with the vigour of Japanese knotweed. Sometimes I wish, vainly (in both senses of the word), that I could share the experience of youth with my children, that they could see me as I once was.
I know I’m not the only older mother who does frightening calculations in her head, and I am terrified of the maths.
By the time my children are old enough for university, I will be nearly 60. If they leave it as long as I did to have children, I will be 76 before I hold a grandchild in my arms.
Even in these days of Pilates and vitamin pills, that is old.
And it breaks my heart to realise that if my children do follow my path, even if I live long enough to see my grandchildren, I may not be in any fit state to play with them.
Certainly, my chances of watching them grow up are vanishingly small.
On the subject of grandparents, my poor children have lost most of theirs. Both grandfathers died in car accidents but, had they not, they would now be 101 and nearly 80.
My husband’s mother died three years ago, so only my mother is left. Thankfully she is a wonder-granny, with formidable devotion, energy and stamina. But, unlike me, she had children early. Women born in 1940 had their first child, on average, at 23, and my mother was bang on-trend. So when I was nine, the same as age my son Henry is now, she was only 32. By the time she was my age now, 47, I was already 24, independent and working.
I know how much she adores being a grandmother, and I feel sad that I made her wait so long for the experience.
I suspect that she worries she might not achieve her dearest wish, which is to watch Henry and Cecily grow up and see what becomes of them. And though I devoutly hope she has at least another 20 years with us, there is a dark undercurrent to her eagerness to spend every possible minute with them.
So why did I wait so long? My standard reply to that question is that I just didn’t find the right man to settle down with until late in life. I met my husband when I was almost 36, and he was six years older.
Why didn’t I meet anyone in my 20s? And why did so many of my beautiful and clever friends follow a similar path? I used to think it was just that good men were thin on the ground, but the older I get, the more unconvincing I find this theory.
I suspect the real reason we stayed single for so long is because, at least in part, our generation of forty-somethings was the first generation of girls ‘bred to work’.
Our mothers were war babies who missed out on the freedom of the Sixties, and wanted us to have the opportunities they never had.
Or perhaps we looked at their seemingly dull lives and vowed to be different. I know my mother regretted giving up her career as a dancer so young — though she was able to return to it later in life, and is still an active performer — and so she encouraged my academic achievements.
My generation went to university and forged careers, which was fantastic, but there was no real discussion as to how a husband and children would fit in with this. Many of us were embarrassed to admit we really did want to walk down the aisle and push a pram.
We were also, I believe, dangerously deluded about our fertility. We read about celebrities having babies in their 50s, though never about the donor eggs that made it possible, and forgot that though you could Botox away wrinkles, you can’t Botox your ovaries.
Fertility in your 40s is a lottery, one which some people win, like my two friends who had third children at 45, while others don’t, such as my friend who nearly died during unsuccessful IVF.
Studies indicate that 90 per cent of us are infertile by the age of 44, while IVF success rates for women over 43 are pitiful — less than two per cent, with miscarriage rates around 50 per cent.
Just as we were told, falsely, that we could put off having babies for ever, we were never told just how wonderful motherhood would be.
A friend of mine, Alison, who has three children, found herself pregnant for the first time at 28, entirely by accident.
She now says: ‘It was a shock at the time. Nobody I knew had children. I felt like a teenage mum. But now I am so grateful it happened. I had two children within two years, and I feel the age gap is just right. I had my 20s to enjoy the time of my life, my 30s to devote to babies, my 40s to cope with them as teenagers, and when I am 50 my oldest will be 20.’
But Alison also had a third child, when she was 37. ‘I spent six years debating whether to have a third child,’ she says. ‘But now I wish, more than anything, that I’d had all my children closer together. I feel like an old mum now.’
At least Alison had that luxury of time and choice. I always knew I wanted children, and dreamed of having at least three or four. But, for a stupidly long time, I did absolutely nothing to make it happen.
Looking back, I am amazed at how consistently I sabotaged my own dreams.
For a huge chunk of my twenties I dated a man who was successful and good-looking, and I chose to ignore the fact that he was absolutely adamant about not wanting marriage or children. When we split — my decision, but it broke my heart — I was close to 30, but instead of looking for someone who would commit, I spent another five years with someone five years younger who was great fun, but who simply wasn’t ready to settle down. Which is how I ended up at the age of 35, newly single and childless.
I suddenly realised, with devastating clarity, that I didn’t have any more time to waste. I didn’t sign up to an internet dating site, or answer lonely-hearts ads, but all the same, within a year I’d fallen in love with the man I’ve been happily married to for ten years.
Chris already had a daughter from a previous relationship, something that might have scared me before. But now his love for his small daughter utterly beguiled me, perhaps even more than his 6ft 4in frame and blue eyes.
I strongly believe it was not just a coincidence that I met Chris only when I started thinking seriously about finding a husband.
My lovely stepdaughter is now 19. If she were mine, I would have been 28 when she was born. I feel the age gap is ideal — big enough that she doesn’t feel I’m competing with her, small enough that we have things in common. I feel lucky that she is in my life.
I can’t wish things were different for me, because that would mean wishing away the family which is the centre of my life.
But perhaps because I know my time with them is shorter than I would have liked, I hate being away from my children.
I work from home, and constantly turn down trips to spas, conferences in exotic places, and yoga holidays that come my way because of my job. I read bedtime stories, bake with my children, and make sandcastles with them.
They bat away my constant kisses with the insouciance of children who know how much they are loved.
My consolation is that life expectancy is growing. Right now, for women, it is 85 and increasing by two years every decade, so it’s likely I will see my children well into adulthood.
I try hard to stay well and fit, with vitamin pills, Saturday morning aerobics and twice-weekly Powerplate sessions, not just so I don’t look like the granny at the school gates, but also to help me stay active and well for longer.
I’m not alone in this. TV presenter Trinny Woodall, 47, who was 40 when she had her daughter Lyla, says: ‘I want to keep healthy so that I have the energy I will need as an older mother having a younger baby.
‘It’s really important that when I’m 50, and my daughter is ten, I can still run around and do things with her.’
There are signs that the trend for mid-life motherhood may be waning. In recent studies, the age at which women say they want to get married has fallen from the early 30s to 26.
Cool slips of girls like Lily Allen are open about their desire to be mothers in a way that would have been hideously unfashionable in my youth. I think it’s a positive thing.
I am not saying being a young mother is always easy, but sometimes I could kick myself for leaving it quite so late. Will I encourage my children to follow in my footsteps? No, I will not.
Topic: I was mad to be a mid-life mother (Read 1860 times)