I was single and lonely at 39. By 43, I had my miracle baby

In 2021, I had my first child at the age of 43. I am what’s known as a “late-in-life mother” (LILM). That’s what they call us at the hospital, at least to our faces. Behind our backs, who knows? Geriatrics? High risk? Painfully aware of our rights and entitlements? There are a lot of us, struggling to get up off the floor.

Comedian Anne Edmonds and husband, Lloyd Langford, with baby Gwen.

I don’t know what the age cut-off is to be considered a LILM. I’m going to suggest it’s 37 and over and wait for the angry DMs from that age group to come rolling in. Maybe it’s got more to do with how much Gorman you wear. If you’re in multicoloured abstract-patterned culottes, sun-smart hat and a loose-fitting boxed black singlet, then welcome to LILM-hood.

My daughter, Gwen, now 16 months old, is truly a child of the times. My partner, Lloyd Langford (also a comedian and a LILF), and I were placed under house arrest in a badly serviced apartment while on tour in Sydney during one of the snap lockdowns. Nine months later, Gwen arrived: born on the day the second Victorian lockdown ended. But it isn’t as simple as all that; I’ll go back a bit.

Often late to a party, I only discovered comedy at 29. My 30s felt thrilling and wild, not always easy. While most of my school friends were buying houses and having children, I was in open-mic rooms, drunk until 5am, learning the trade – in more ways than one. I love the company of other comedians, their cynicism and impulsiveness. I began travelling around sleeping on people’s floors to do gigs, riding the extreme highs and the lowest of lows that only come with bombing on stage (and rejections from men, who I was also right into at the time).

Mostly I loved it, until I woke up one day at the age of 39 and realised I lived alone in a one-bedroom flat owned by my cousin. I was lonely, which is one of the hardest things to admit. I’d peer out at the other people living in the other one-bedroom flats, some of whom I’d even based characters on, and think, I’m just the same: pottering around, going to the bins, crying in the shower.

Never one to think much about the future (as my super balance will attest), the penny dropped; I may never have children. Some women don’t want children, of course. Annoyingly, I did.

So, like many women who want children but find themselves in the same predicament, I started the self-talk: “I’ll be fine. I’ll travel. It’s better for my career.” It’s a downside of modern womanhood that you can’t just collapse onto the ground in front of everyone and say, “I want someone to love me and a little baby to hold.” On top of this pain, you must outwardly celebrate your independence and strength.

Then I got so lucky that it brings tears to my eyes. A good man turned up in the form of Welsh comedian Lloyd Langford. Just after, COVID-19 hit and he was trapped here. He just said, “Yes, all right, me too” when I said I’d like to have a baby. As easy as that, which is what people always tell you good relationships should be like.

It can take LILMs a long time to get pregnant. There’s a lot of talk about eggs and graphs showing your minuscule chances. And it did take us a while. There’s also the battle with insecurity. A comedy career can hang by a thread. There is no HR department. No guarantees, if you disappear into motherhood for two years. TV producers, mostly male, can dangle carrots in front of you for years and you are left trying to map out when a pregnancy and baby might fit around a dream project that’s a perpetual “maybe”. It’s not really a system set up for women. Surprise!

“I lived alone in a one-bedroom flat owned by my cousin. I was lonely, which is one of the hardest things to admit.”

But when I look at Gwen and wonder if there was ever a question of choosing a career over her running up the hallway to fling a toy rabbit at the front door and fall on the ground laughing, it brings more tears to my eyes. It’s a shame we still feel like we must choose.

The greatest moment of my life was when Gwen was born. I adore that kid. My mother’s group in inner-city Melbourne is full of LILMs, all with an interesting backstory. We are also mostly first-time mothers. I don’t think there is an age where this isn’t the most profoundly difficult and joyous experience of your life, all at the same time. It puts the highs and lows of comedy to shame. I can’t believe I ever cried at the Edinburgh Fringe when I had the option of a full night’s sleep ahead of me. You idiot.

I will be about 56 when Gwen starts high school, which is ridiculous. Poor Gwen, she’ll be so embarrassed as I shuffle into parent-teacher night and try to show the AI teacher clips of me doing stand-up on something called YouTube. “You’re too old,” Gwen will shout, and I’ll grab my Gorman florescent green-and-yellow swirled hat and SFP200 sunscreen and yell back, “I am your LILM.”

Anne Edmonds is performing at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival until April 23.

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