Forty is the New Fabulous

I get distracted at toddler story hour at the library. I guess I don't find The Hungry Little Caterpillar as edge-of-your-seat compelling as my daughter, Claire, does. My mind seems to wander to the other mothers seated around the perimeter of the circle. Sometimes, I even get caught staring. Creepy, right? But I just can't help myself!

I marvel at how young the mothers are compared to my forties self. Perhaps, "marvel" is code for covet their flawless skin and the youthful stretches of time that they have ahead of them. But I marvel too. I marvel about how different my path to motherhood has been from a lot of women.

When I was single and approaching 40, I felt different then too. My non-marital status always left me open to strange, unsolicited questions and comments from people that made me extremely uncomfortable. I never said so, though. I think a part of me believed I actually owed them an explanation.

One time, an acquaintance of mine introduced me to her mother by saying, “This is Rachel. We have to find her a man. She’s just so great.”

{My thought: Why do I need a man? Why am I not fine as I am?}

Her mother, then, responded, “How old are you?”

When I said “thirty-eight", she paused and said, “Well…maybe, there's a good divorced man out there for you..."

 {subtext: my advice to you is lower your sights.}

This kind of subtext was always close to the surface when these types of conversations arose. Sometimes, the words beneath the words seemed to scream louder than the words themselves. Here’s what people have said to me over the years {and the subtext that I heard}:

"I don't understand why you're still single!"
  {Why are you still single?}

“It’ll happen someday.”
{I am at a loss about what to say to you, so I offer this lame encouragement.}

“All the good ones are already taken.”
{Settle. Now.}

“You haven’t met the right one.”
  {I can only imagine the bad choices in men that you've made.}

“Do you wanna have kids?”
{I hope not, because there's no way that's happening at this stage in the game.}

“Any man who’s single in his 40’s must have a lot of baggage.”
  {You’re near 40 too. You must have a lot of baggage.}

“Any man who’s single in his 40’s most have commitment issues.”
{You must have commitment issues.}

“What was your longest relationship?”
{You must have commitment issues.}

“Any man who’s single in his 40’s must be gay.”
{You must be gay.}

“Have you tried switching teams?”
{Are you a lesbian?}

“Thought about becoming a cougar?”
{Accept it. You're getting ready to be put out to pasture.}

“You don’t need a man anyway.”
{Make peace with your lot as Old Maid.}

“My brother's still single. Let me set you two up.”
{You'll only have age in common. But, really, can either of you afford to be picky at this point?}

“It’s a jungle out there.”
{Lemme tell you how glad I am not to be in your shoes.}

“Have you tried internet dating?”
{Can’t you get a man on your own?}

Now, I'm at the part of my story where I get to tell the people who said these things what I really thought of their commentary. Yes, some of this list did come true. Yes, I did meet my husband on Match.com and, yes, I am now what is referred to as a "cougar". But I did not switch teams, nor did I get put out to pasture.

I happily found love, marriage and the proverbial baby carriage after forty. The current organization of my family feels like a triumph in the context of the lame comments and questions I endured over the years.

But, really, why should anyone need to get married and have children to feel triumphant? 

We are all on our own personal journey with a unique timeline and purpose. Social expectations and cultural norms should not define its direction. When it comes down to it, a person's path is solely the business of her and her God, if she has one. Surely, God meant to include people living outside the nuclear family paradigm.

Personally, I know one little girl who will be happy that things went down the way they did in my life. I can't imagine them happening any differently either.

Trying Again After Miscarriage

I found these words spilling out of my mouth on my first date with my husband, "Well, I'm not sure if I can even have kids at this point, since I'm in my forties."

The thought bubble over my head was saying, "Why on earth are you telling this man these things?! Not exactly fun and flirty dinner conversation!"

Another part of my brain was saying, "Oh well, if you're gonna scare him away, make it sooner rather than later, for everyone's sake."

My future husband replied thoughtfully, "I want children, but I'd rather end up with the right woman than worry about what our life should look like. I'd be happy adopting or figuring it out somehow."

Two and a half years later, Claire was born.

The perfect happy ending!

I wasn’t always so sure we would get to that happy ending. It was easy to embark on the journey of getting pregnant with my husband, when I had nothing to lose.

Then, I had a miscarriage at 13 weeks.

I experienced what it was like to want something, and have it taken away. Intellectually, I thought I was prepared. I knew all the doom and gloom statistics about conception and miscarriage for women in their 40’s. But it's one thing to know something, quite another to experience it.

The hardest choice I ever made was to try again. It meant staying open to not knowing the ending of our story, facing the possibility of miscarriage again (indeed, we had one more), and living in a state of limbo.

There were times when the easier choice seemed to close the door on having a baby entirely and to just move on with our life. It’s a double-edged sword facing the unknown with someone you love. You each have your own journey full of personal shades of trepidation and hope. Sometimes, one person can carry the other through the down times. Sometimes, both of you need a little support, but neither has the resources to give.

Ultimately, though, it was my husband’s character that gave me the strength to keep trying. His words on our first date continued to resonate in our lives. He showed me how to put relationships over goals. He helped me have faith that the journey would take us exactly where we needed to go. He taught me that hope isn't getting what you think you want, but being open to what you receive.

I’m glad I listened to my heart on our first date. Between you and me, another thought bubble over my head was “I think I could marry this man." I didn’t share that one with him either.

This post is an adaptation of another post, The Story of Us, which I wrote on the fourth anniversary of our first date. I thought it deserved being revisited in the context of Claire being born.


Photo Source: Tatiana Vdb  Flickr. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorse its use or this blog. License

My Geriatric Pregnancy

I must have deserved a medal the time that I decided to try and have a baby at age 44. Or I was crazy. Well, the medical profession seemed to think so.

According to statistics, I was lucky to get pregnant in the first place. Then, once I was pregnant, I was slapped with the most laughable of terms. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that I make fun of the fact that an OB told me I was a “geriatric pregnancy”.

I switched to a midwife.

Even at the all-natural, crunchy birthing center where we had Claire, I was told to count on going passed my due date and to be ready to be induced because of my “Advance Maternal Age” (Ah, AMA…slightly better than being a geriatric, but not much).

I didn’t help my plight much by consulting Dr. Google for reassurance. He is the king of doom and

gloom. “Higher risk” usually starts the slew of statistics peppered through the information for moms-to-be of AMA. The worst of which is the word “stillbirth”.

In a sense, I don’t envy the position of those in the medical community though. They need to prepare women for possible outcomes. But there's a fine line between a gentle heads-up, and being just plain old scary. A lot of doctors (and midwives) seem to have this way about them that makes everything that comes out of their mouths seem like a foregone conclusion.

And, really, they have nothing to lose by scaring you. If they are right, they get to say “I told you so”. If they aren’t, they can say, “Well, thank your lucky stars you had a medical provider as excellent as me”.

I can place myself in the latter category. And I am thankful, very, very thankful. While I wouldn’t describe my pregnancy, labor and delivery as a bed of roses, I think it was a good one. No gestational diabetes or preeclampsia. I gained a normal amount of weight. I delivered Claire naturally two days before her due date. My labor was eight hours long from start to finish. I pushed four times, et voila!

Not bad for an old lady, eh?!

If I sound like I’m bragging, well, maybe, a little. But I’m also trying to illustrate a point…

Individuals make up statistics. Individuals are not statistics. Neither are babies.

One of the biggest challenges I faced trying to get pregnant and during my pregnancy was counteracting the negative voices that I heard. Dr. Doom and Gloom definitely set up camp in the back of my head.

He made me scared.

He put doubts in my head about our decision to try.

He made me feel isolated.

Not things that a woman (of any age) needs to feel the first time (or any time) she is pregnant.

Do I really deserve a medal? No. Really, all women who give birth deserve medals. What’s amazing to me is that this feat of daring athleticism happens every minute of every hour of every day!

So I’m qualifying the beginning statement of this post: I deserved a medal for having a baby at 44 in the face of the medical community’s dire predictions about the fate of my baby and me.

In case this statement sounds less than humble or I'm guilty of minimizing the decided risks of pregnancy, let me tell you that I'm being slightly tongue in cheek (slightly). I also know that nothing in life is guaranteed. I know that George and I are lucky and blessed that everything went down the way that it did. I know we could have just as easily been a statistic too.

But women like me deserve to have hope despite the odds. We deserve to be supported along an often daunting, lonely and unpredictable path. We deserve to remember that doctors aren't always right. They are not God, even though they sometimes like to pretend that they are.

Claire and I are living, breathing proof!

To this point, wanna know what I learned after my pregnancy? The statistic about how a woman’s fertility drops like a stone after 35 is based on French birth records from 1670-1830. Yes, you read that correctly. The author of this captivating and eye-opening Atlantic article goes on to say that  "surprisingly few well-designed studies of female age and natural fertility include women born in the 20th century".

Makes you wonder about all the other statistics as well, especially, given this country's stellar record of focusing research dollars on women’s health (dripping sarcasm here, in case you were wondering).

But, whatever the facts may be, I’m happy that I kept my eye on the prize and did my best to ignore Dr. Doom.

Claire is my prize. She is better than any medal!


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Photo Source: David Rosenbergy, Wikipedia Commons, this photo has been altered, which does not suggest that the licensor endorses me, this blog or its use.

Linking up with Finish The Sentence Friday. Come join in: "I deserve a medal for the time I..."

Children Grow Up. Parents Grow Old.

George and I started talking about one of those 529 funds for Claire for college. I fear I'm going to break out in hives every time I think about it. Not for the obvious reasons, like the rising cost of college or that my daughter will be ready to leave the nest.

My reasons for gloom and doom are more self-centered. I start thinking about how old I will be then. When you have a child at 44, you're staring social security in the face (if it exists then) by the time your kid graduates from high school. In other words, mom is grandma's age.

I mentioned our impending golden years to George and he said, "Oh, I'll be 60, when Claire goes to college. Jerry's age. He looks great."

I just stared at him. It's true; our friend Jerry looks great at age 60...

"Jerry doesn't have kids," I said.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not going to look like Jerry."

Case closed. I usually don't win arguments that easily.

I recently found a picture of George and me online that was taken before we were married. I was on Google images with Claire looking at the Statue of Liberty. She wanted to see pictures of papa, so I searched my husband's name.

I was surprised when this one popped up. I had forgotten about it. We were at a fancy benefit for A.R.T. New York. Here we are with Director Ginny Louloudes.

Don't we look fresh faced? George doesn't have grey hair yet. I'm actually tan! I don't even remember the last time I was tan. Well, clearly, the last time I was tan was when this picture was taken. Wearing a dress is a distant memory also.

I can't say I would want to go back to the time before we had Claire. My life is much richer and more rewarding now. Before Claire definitely wasn't the good old days. But the days were certainly easier. And I miss that black dress.

I need to find a place to wear that again, no matter that I'm getting old.


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A Tale of Two Spa Days

My blogger mom friend Deb from Urban Moo Cow wrote a post recently about getting a facial and leaving feeling old. It's not true; check out her profile picture. She looks fab. And she runs marathons, but I digress.

I told her she got snowed. I wasn't trying to be mean. I was commiserating. The same thing happened to me…

Behold two tales…one of a facial, the other a massage. Both stories commence in similar fashion: I relax into the hands of a trained professional, and my body releases some of the stress of the day. Forty minutes later, each spa day experience starts to go in a different direction…

My facial conversation:

"Your skin is very dehydrated," the lady aesthetician says.

"Yeah. I should drink more water," I say.

"That's probably what's causing your skin to be so dry…" she says. "And these dark circles around your eyes."

"Oh," I say, starting to feel like a slob, dummy and loser. I begin projecting all kinds of crap into the conversation. She's saying one thing, but here's what I hear:

"Lucky you came in in time, because there's still hope, but just barely. Aveda makes x, y and z that can help with your giant failure to take care of your skin," she says. "Along with this, this and this for the kitchen sink of facial issues you've created for yourself. Oh, and, if you want to stop looking old, here's the other magic elixir for all of those wrinkles and fine lines that are like crevices all over your face."

She brings out a large green jar with great ceremony. It seems surrounded by a glow with heavenly powers. I hear the skies part, along with a violin crescendo. I'm at a crossroads in life --  either buy it, or future generations of my family will suffer the consequences.

An hour later, I leave the store weighed down with a green bag and a heavy heart, plus a resolve to do better by my skin, my country and the world. I feel some sort of moral imperative to exfoliate more.

Contrast that to my massage conversation:

"You carry a lot of stress in your shoulders," the masseuse says.

"Yeah, I have a one year old. I had her when I was older. Some of my stress comes from feeling like I'm too old and tired to keep up with her," I explain.

"Your an older mom?" she says. "How old are you?"

"I'm 45," I say.

"No! Really?" she says. "Your skin looks amazing. I never would have guessed that age and I see lots of skin. What do you use on your skin?

"Coconut oil..." I say. "Like the kind you use to cook with. I know it sounds crazy, but it's cheap and I have really dry skin, so it works for me."

"Wow, I have dry skin too. I'll have to give that a try," she says.

Coo Coo over Coconut Oil

I leave here feeling light as a feather, exactly how I should feel after a massage (and a facial for that matter).

The difference in my two tales? The first woman probably did have a mandate from above -- her superiors. Instill fear in me, shill a bunch of products and add a hefty commission to her meager salary. The second didn't have anything to sell other than her lovely, magic fingers.

Of course, the masseuse was looking for a nice tip; it's possible that money was part of her agenda too. All I know is that I felt much better after the massage. The facial was a different story.

I haven't been back for a facial since. If I ever get another wild hair to go back to Aveda, I've left a green bottle of toner in my medicine cabinet as a cautionary tale.

I mean, come on, I fell for toner? Honestly, I really don't even know what toner is!


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