THE OLDER MOTHER SPEAKS

Anniki Sommerville - 11 Feb 15

I didn’t plan on being an older mum. In fact, I always thought I’d have children in my thirties (which seemed ancient enough thank you). But stuff happened. I had a job that involved lots of travel and late nights and a flat in an area that was trendy but so dodgy that my own neighbour mugged me. I also seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about what I wanted out of life.

I look back at my early thirties now and I want to scream – WAKE UP! IT’S TIME TO HAVE A BABY! But I wouldn’t have listened. I spent long periods of time listening to melancholic music whilst smoking out the kitchen window (imagining I was a tragic heroine in a poncey arthouse film). Pondering whether I could get away with wearing a cape and a felt hat. Too much time considering different moisturisers. I thought I might one day become an author specialising in books about thirty-somethings who got mugged by their neighbours. I was self-absorbed. And waiting for the perfect time. And there’s no such thing. If you wait til all the stars are aligned you’ll basically end up like me.

Forty years old and pregnant!

I know there are lots of older mums who get pregnant easily but it didn’t happen like that for me. And perhaps if I’d spent less time reflecting on my one true purpose in life and more time procreating I would have been in a better position. I certainly wasn’t prepared to transition from a fairly whimsical ‘Ooh it’d be nice to have a baby,’ to a state of complete desperation within the space of two short years. It made the years of smoking and pondering feel very distant and stupid indeed.

Now I have a wonderful daughter. I’m lucky. But don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy being an older parent. You know how hangovers get worse when you’re old? Well it’s the same when you’re up all night with a baby. The only difference being that drinking is fun and having a baby squawking in your ear as you cry into your duvet is not.

Your powers of recovery are rubbish. You look hungover when you’re not. Younger mums look at you with pity. There’s no time to apply eye cream. When you’re not lowering your old, depleted boob into your baby’s mouth you’re frantically googling – EMERGENCY PLASTIC SURGERY. You groan whenever you open your mouth to speak. You spend an inordinate amount of time fantasising about hot baths. You have to make a concerted effort to keep up. When you jump on a bouncy castle you feel your teeth rattle.

And what about having another one? Well I have to face up to the fact that my reproductive organs no longer want to play ball. They’d rather put their feet up and watch Question Time. They’re just being pragmatic that’s all. And it makes me sad that I can’t chivvy them along for a little longer. It would have been nice. It would have been ideal.

I watched a brilliant documentary about Danish sperm donors last week and one of the Mums being interviewed was forty-eight and had just had twins. Part of me loves the fact that this woman stuck one finger up to the Daily Mail bigots out there and went for it. But there’s also a side that wonders how the heck she’s going to cope. I mean physically.

She’s going to be mentally capable for many years. We’re moving towards a society where age is about attitude more than anything. We’re wearing Nike Air Max and listening to FKA Twigs on Spotify. We don’t have to shop in old ladies shops, wear flannelette nighties and eat scones. But we are ageing. We feel it.  And there’s a tired old body shuffling about in those trainers however much we want to forget it’s happening.

But surely there are benefits to be being an older parent? Well yes there are. For a start I have more patience. I’m less self-obsessed. I don’t give a shit about capes. I’ve given up smoking and no longer live my life like I’m in a quirky, low budget arthouse film. It’s been a long time since I smuggled someone’s cat into my bag on the way home from the pub. I’ve done most of the stuff I want to (that’s not strictly true but I’ve done more than when I was in my thirties). I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I’m also passing on a healthy preference for cool seventies TV shows like Sesame Street.

I am lucky and have to remind myself of that.

But I’m jealous of young mums. Of their stamina. The fact that they can jump up and down without feeling their bones creak. That they can recover from a bad nights sleep more quickly. And map a future that includes more than one child.

I wish I’d started sooner that’s all.

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Anniki Sommerville

I'm Super Editor here at SelfishMother.com and love reading all your fantastic posts and mulling over all the complexities of modern parenting. We have a fantastic and supportive community of writers here and I've learnt just how transformative and therapeutic writing can me. If you've had a bad day then write about it. If you've had a good day- do the same! You'll feel better just airing your thoughts and realising that no one has a master plan. I'm Mum to a daughter who's 3 and my passions are writing, reading and doing yoga (I love saying that but to be honest I'm no yogi).

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