- My first child was born when I was 33 years old.
- When she was 9 and I was 42, I wanted another child.
- I thought that if I had another child, I wouldn't grow old.
I'm driving on the same roads I've been driving on for 20 years. I used to make left turns at stop signs, but that has changed forever.
There are peacocks running wild in our neighborhood, so Mom and I, on the way home from sports practice or AP exams, my daughter says, “Go to the peacock trail,” and we go to see these beautiful creatures. It's what I passed on the road. When my second daughter came along, I taught her about this mysterious path.
i am an older mom
I was 33 years old when my first child was born. That's older than most parents in the Conejo Valley. Conejo means rabbit in Spanish, and there are many children in this town.
Our only child gave us so much love and life, and when she was 9 years old, I decided I wanted another one. Maybe it was because she was tying her shoelaces and she was packing her own snacks, or maybe it was just spontaneously saying, “Her sister, give me a last call now.” I don't know. In any case, I was 42 years old and wanted another Peanut, Punkin, and an adorable little snuggle bunny.
My husband and I were strictly “no” I said right away as I got her consent to lay eggs again. “This may sound strange, but I want another baby.'' He looked at me in surprise and said, “I feel like this family is missing a soul.'' Told.
My obstetrics and gynecology doctor told me not to get my hopes up. “Your eggs are old. You'll need IVF.” Five weeks later, I got pregnant.
I thought I could stay young by doing childish things again.
For the next nine months, I worried that I had made a huge mistake. She was swollen and it made her feel sick, so I asked her husband, “Why are you doing this?”
“We don't want to get old,” he answered.
We use the time we have left to go to dance recitals, throw tantrums, pay for camping and clothing, and share our love of art, numbers, and baseball with other humans. I believed that I could extend it.
Our second girl was sweet and gentle. It's as if she's saying, “Give me lots of attention and praise, and I'll be the dreamiest baby on the planet.”
She is now 14 years old. She would rather go to her thrift store than look at peacocks, and she would rather listen to SZA than chat with me. She doesn't like baseball, she tolerates museums, and she's good at math, but she's not as interested in watching influencers pull off outfits on TikTok.
I'm 57 years old. My friend is young. When I look at them, I think I might look that way too. But mirrors don't lie. And when I mention “I Love Lucy” or David Cassidy, they often say, “Sorry, who?”
I just delayed the inevitable.
But their children are also transitioning to cell phones and friends. Soon, we won't be laughing, cuddling, or having long, loving stories. We will cry together when our children graduate. Because you will know how it feels when you completely need it and when you don't.
Fifteen years ago, my desire to feel fulfilled, needed, and loved beyond measure overcame my budding sense of independence. Now I'm older, fatter and wrinkled, but I've only delayed the inevitable.
So I go on a journey and write a book. going out with her husband. I do these things like it's my job. Because I was finally separated from the person I loved the most.
Alone in my car, I drive down Peacock Way. He's there – huge, blue-green, exploding with plumes of smoke. For 20 years, he crossed the road in front of moving cars and stared at the dog. The coyotes leave him alone. I'm going to tell my daughters that I met him. He was the best man, the oldest and wisest of them all.
