Late motherhood: a cautionary tale

I applaud late motherhood, but it’s bloody hard.

I had our lovely, life altering mistake in my mid 40s, but a Tasmanian woman is embarking on new motherhood at 63.

My life is measured in forgotten cups of tea. There they are, the forlorn mugs on kitchen bench and bedside table, found hours later with putrid contents cold and curdled. What life is this, as yet another cup of undrinkable sludge is tipped out?

A swamped one. A life not my own, led by a person I barely recognise now. And as I sink further into mid-life ennui I wonder in my secret moments: did I have my last child too late?

All this as a 63-year-old Tasmanian mother settles into an upended new life with her firstborn. I had our lovely, life altering mistake in my mid 40s - this woman has beaten that astonishment by a couple of decades, travelling overseas to have a donor embryo implanted.

When my period stopped, I assumed it was the menopause kicking in but no, it was miraculous life. And five years ago, when our youngest was born, I extolled the joys of late motherhood; wrote in my milky bliss that older mothers are more settled, emotionally and financially; that our children keep us young.

But now? Struggling. Exhausted. Tugged in all directions. Haven't ironed in a decade.

No time to get the grey out of my hair. Cut it myself; no space for a salon visit. The flinty truth: this beautiful little man may have tipped me over the edge. It's demanding, it's consuming; I'm too old for it. And just at the age when women are meant to be winding back. I feel stranded in motherhood as most of my mates are zooming into gleeful release, as their kids leave school and homes quieten. Freedom!

Travel! Kicking back! Well, not for the chap and me. I worry about sustaining the pace of the freelancer's life for another 15 years; about a superannuation cupboard that's almost bare thanks to the writer's rollercoaster existence.

It feels peculiarly lonely, too. I don't fit in with fellow kindy mums, some almost half my age and paranoid about reading groups, party invitations, Naplan - I've been there, done that, moved on, let go.

And today, a Saturday, my darling mistake wakes toddler-early, as he does. Senses my alarm hasn't gone off so mimics the pings in my ear as my body howls for more sleep.

Yet curiously, our dear little afterthought is our most self-sufficient and relaxed child.

There's no expectation upon him, no weight of parental push. It feels like he, finally, is being raised the old-fashioned Aussie way, when kids were left to their own devices.

You get what you get and you don't get upset. Just do it, try; your parent is not your slave. And so off he goes, singing happily to himself; loved, just that, and content with it.

Who's to judge a 63-year-old first-time mother? I can only imagine her euphoric joy. Some say she's selfish; I say she's blessed.

(And why do we not call into question the 78-year-old father?) The parents' advanced age may be unfair on the child yet they've given that child the greatest gift of all - life.

Middle-aged Australian women are now having more babies than our teenagers are for the first time since 1932.

I applaud late motherhood but send a note of caution. It's exhilarating, it's bloody hard. It's not selfishness; it's the opposite.

You're giving so much that you're depleted, physically, emotionally, intellectually; it turns you into someone else. The heave of hormones is more pronounced. It will take a great toll on an ageing body as it struggles with an alien situation; we're not meant to have babies in our 50s, let alone 60s. This newly minted mother won't know what's hit her and that feeling will last for years.

But it will be worth it. Our little mistake demonstrates this to us every blessed day, despite the curdled cups of tea languishing around the house.