I recently saw an ‘open letter’ written by an “older mom”. She was mid-forties, with a fifteen, thirteen and ten year old. She was writing to the “young moms” (early thirties with young kids). I confess I did not read the letter past the introduction. I generally dislike ‘open letters’, finding them sanctimonious, generally speaking. I also was too busy laughing my ass off at the description “older mom” for a woman in her mid-forties with teenagers. Let me tell you about being an “older mom”.
I was two months shy of my 44th birthday when I found out I was pregnant with my first (and only) child. Yes, you read that correctly.
From the moment you find out you are pregnant, you are simultaneously ecstatic and terrified. This is a statement that is true, I believe for all expectant parents. You are terrified of what might go wrong, or whether you will be a good parent. When you are 44 years old when your child is born, your worries are different. In addition to worries about genetic anomalies and being a good parent, you worry about whether you will be alive when your child graduates, marries, has grandchildren. Again, I am sure all parents worry to some degree about those things, but as an older mom, you worry more. I also worried about whether I would be riding a mobility scooter to high school graduation and whether my child would be embarrassed by how old their mom was.
When you tell people you are pregnant at 44, they look at you with a combiation of joy and horror. It is not unlike the way Laura Dern looked at the dinasauers in the first Jurrasic Park. Like “It’s super cool, but also just kinda wrong and scary”.
I was the oldest mom at birthing classes by a solid ten years. I was told I would be on bed rest by my second trimester and would have every conceivable issue a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ (yep, isn’t that an awesome descriptor?) could have. Now, I was so lucky as I had an uneventful pregnancy and delivery, with no health issues.
I brought home my little bundle of joy and it was only a short week later I was mistaken for his grandmother. All good, I was totally expecting it.
I was less prepared for a fun game my son liked to play when he was three called ‘count the lines on Mama’s forehead’. Needless to say, at ten years of age, he is far above his grade level in math due to all the early counting practice.
It is not as weird as I thought it would be being 10-20 years older than my son’s friends parents. I mean, I am guessing I am a lot more tired than they are, and racing after my son is likely more challenging for me.
I capitalize on being the old mom every summer when the fair comes to town. They have ‘grandparents ride free’ night and every year we make our son call us “Pop Pop” and “Gan Gan” all night as we ride for free.
I personally think being older makes me a better parent than I would have been when I was younger. I am more patient and I care a lot less what others think of me, which comes in handy during the Mommy Shaming social media game. I do not mean that younger moms are not those things, just that I would not have been them at a younger age. It also makes me less inclined to write “open letters” to other moms, although I guess blogging is a form of that.
The drawback of course is that my son has less grandparents as some have passed away. I come from a big family and I am the youngest, so my son’s cousins are in the 30’s and 40’s, while my son is 10. Most of his cousin’s children are older than my son. Honestly though, so what? Some of my friends fill the grandparent role. My son loves his ‘complicated’ family and being the youngest of his generation.
As an older mom, I will never judge you. I love your youth and enthusiasm. We always have our kids in common so our relationships never feel strained by the age difference, at least, not to me. However, we cannot be friends if you ever say “my child would never (insert whatever thing my kid just did here).”