As an older mom, I’m cognizant of the possibility of dying before my daughter is grown.
For me, this is the most difficult thing about being an older parent. I want as much time with her as possible. I don’t want to leave her motherless too soon, both for her own sake and, selfishly, for mine.
I’m often the oldest mom in the group
The uterus is less like a cabernet sauvignon that improves the longer it ages, and more like a Beaujolais that is best shortly after it ripens. My uterus was carefully monitored throughout my geriatric pregnancy. Preeclampsia. Emergency c-section. Baby.
Since giving birth, my hair has turned a dignified gray. I have new wrinkles. I’ve gained weight thanks to medication, perimenopause, and regular sedentary WFH days. When my daughter finishes high school, I’ll be rounding the bend toward retirement. If she goes to college, I’ll be nearly 70 at graduation.
It’s no wonder that folks on the bus, at stores, on the playground, or at the library mistake me for my daughter’s grandma. Even though I understand why, it causes a pang every time. Aging visibly in a culture that glorifies young, glowing moms full of vivacious energy feels fraught on many levels.
There are benefits to my age
I answer my daughter’s many questions and follow her down rabbit holes full of follow-up questions until we either satisfy her curiosity on a topic or determine that we need to, as Elmo says, “LOOK! IT! UP!” Years in therapy have given me the perspective to be a more patient person, which makes me a better mom than I would otherwise have been.
After decades of building a career, I have the credibility to request flexibility to tend to my family’s needs — not something I would have had in my 30s while juggling part-time jobs and grad school, nor in my 20s when I was constantly broke.
I’m in perimenopause while my daughter is in preschool, but reliving the wonders of discovery through the lens of childhood distracts me from some of its more difficult aspects. Whether examining lizards sunning on rocks, listening to birdsong, or peering into the night sky at planets, rekindling my own curiosity as a byproduct of my daughter’s is one of many rewards of parenting. Night sweats pale in comparison to the joy of exploration.
Oh, and the dance parties. I’m old enough to dance like no one’s watching. So many dance parties!
I’m teaching my daughter about living in the present
I hope to grow old without burdening my daughter with my care or worrying that I won’t be with her for as long as she’d like. But chasing the illusion of eternal youth entails waging a losing battle against time.
As an older parent, I try to teach my daughter that living well means cultivating kindness, relishing the present moment no matter what came before or what we expect of the future, and keeping our eyes up to carry the world with us. These are lessons I’m learning too, but none were my top priorities when I was a younger, child-free person. I can’t help but think that my daughter is getting the best of me as an older mom.