Maiden, Mother… Whoa-Not Quite Crone
Planning to have a baby at 42 was, well, not in the plan. It happened. I thought I was in perimenopause, but alas, not so much. My daughter was nine at the time and though we had tried while she was younger, it hadn’t happened and so we were a happy family of three. I know for a fact that my son was supposed to come to me at age 42 even though I was not only unprepared, but more importantly, scared out of my wits.
Divine, Parental Intervention
I was 40 years old when we took my dad to live with us. We put an addition on the house. I should have known it would turn into a metaphor. Pops was great, but forgetful. As an only child himself and then a father of eight, he had his own ideas about family.
“You know I was thinking kid, you might want to have another, being an only child is tough.”
And with that, my guilt would swell and I would clean the house.
“Well Dad, we have tried but it just didn’t happen for us and we’re ok now. Hey I am 41, and I don’t really think it’s going to happen now if it hasn’t happened already.”
This conversation took place almost everyday as his memory, was at best, spotty. I often wonder now if he was intentionally using the “gee, I don’t remember saying that,” or what followers of The Secret now call the “Power of Intention in the Universe.”
My father died on September 1st, 2004 and three weeks later I found out that I was pregnant. I was 41, and not remotely ready for midlife breast feeding. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t sure if my breasts were even up for the challenge. They had, at this point, moved a tad more south, requiring the dreaded underwire service, and I couldn’t imagine them, engorged, maternal and ready to serve on demand. I peed on that stick and thought, “I can’t do this. I’m too old, I’m too tired. There’s just no way. I will be 60 when he graduates high school.”
Putting the Brakes On Crone
So, my age set the stage. I couldn’t get an appointment with the OBGYN for six weeks, and when I did, I was given a laundry list of precautions, signs and various tests that I should succumb to in case the “baby was not viable.” I refused most of the tests, but I did allow the chromosomal blood test; non-invasive and simple enough. During the test, I thought about my own mother who had given birth to me in 1963 at the ripe old age of 40 – unheard of in those days and probably not a test in sight. While the nurse took my blood and explained how they would examine my chromosomes, I wondered if there was any point to it. This was obviously beyond any of my control, seeing that I had not been pregnant for ten years after my daughter and had only become pregnant after my own father’s incessant nagging and death. This was hardcore, “circle of life”-kind-of- circumstances. What would a blood test tell me?
Three weeks later the results were in. I must admit I was shaking when the nurse called me. “You have some beautiful chromosomes,” she said as if I had any idea what that meant. “Thanks. Does that mean he will look like Pierce Brosnan?” I replied.
“Well I can’t guarantee you that, but all looks well.”
Here’s to You, Mom
I realized that my mother did it without all the bells and whistles and on my mother’s birthday of May 13th, roughly ten years after my first child, I gave birth to my son. It’s been a ride, and one I wasn’t sure I would be up for, but much like the rollercoaster we fear, once around the loops and twirls we can’t wait to feel our hearts beat so powerful again. And, in the months that would follow that initial “viable baby” test, I felt younger than I had in years. I don’t know if the pregnancy gave me a sense of renewed life, or the fact that I was convinced my son was my father reincarnated or that my hair felt thicker. Whatever the case, I was a new middle-aged mother and Cronehood would have to wait.