SEPTEMBER MOM

I had my first child when I was 41, my second when I was 42. I didn’t really feel like an ‘older’ mom. In fact, I still felt young – maybe even still too young to be a mother. But at 42 I was clearly in the September of my years. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, September is a time when the trees shed their vibrant colored leaves to reinvent themselves in the spring.

I hadn’t spent my first 40 years pining away in a room with no windows. I fully enjoyed what life had to offer. I lived in different cities – different countries. I experienced many walks of life and the variety of people who tread those roads. I have a past that some would call sordid. Some would call exciting. I just call it mine.

But part of me wanted that white picket fence, a husband and children. I felt like a vagabond – born to be a wife and mother. I’d pass families with children and yearn for a little hand to hold. I’d watch pregnant women hobble across streets and wonder if I would ever be so blessed. I would wake to the loud ticking of my clock and break out in a cold sweat.

Well-meaning friends would lend me their children for a day – or two – sure that that I would run back to my life of red wine and romance, or just a foreign film in the sanctity of my apartment. And honestly, I wasn’t sure if they really needed a babysitter or if they were secretly vying to terrify me from the motherhood because they enjoyed living vicariously through my escapades.

One of my escapades led me to the father of my children. We fell in love and children ‘on the horizon’ became children in my womb. But I wasn’t a 25-year-old with child. I was a 41-year-old with child. A 41-year-old with two jobs – a full-time editor and freelance writer. I had a house to support, three step-children and a four-hour round trip commute.

Pregnancy took a toll on my body. But for the first time in my life, I had a bosom. Nature can be cruel though, it was dwarfed by my growing belly. None of that mattered when I felt that little body stir in mine. I changed. I thought twice before darting across streets when the red hand began flashing. I stopped smoking and spent more on baby items than new clothes.

I worked till the day before I gave birth to both of my children. With deadlines hovering, I worked immediately after giving birth. The straw that broke this camel’s back was when my partner – who brought three additional children to our family – decided he no longer wanted to work. I wasn’t pleased over the prospect of raising six children – two of ours, three of his and him – so I left when my children were 2 and 3. Driving away I pumped up the volume on my speakers and sang Bye Bye Baby with country crooner, Phil Vassar on CD. And I knew, while glancing in the rear view mirror at my children, snugged in their car seats, that it would be okay.

Now it’s been far from a picnic, but I’m fine and more important – so are my children.
As a business writer, I work from home so that I am here to raise them. I’m the grey mom in the playground when I haven’t had time to get to the hairdresser. I have less stamina than other moms. And whoever said that older mom’s have more patience – lied. Most other moms in the playground have never heard a Dan Fogelberg or Jackson Browne song – nor do they care. Still, the term ‘older mom’ isn’t something I want to wear on my t-shirt.

But I’ve always loved the fall. There’s something magical about brightly colored trees shedding leaves that float softly through the air. With my children now older, this old oak is ready to reinvent herself too. I have more time for me – more time to express myself in ways that I find enjoyable. Hence, September Mom.

Welcome to my life.