Dodging the Mombie Hordes

Leave a reply

This week, while brainstorming a possible name for tired parents, I did an Internet search for the term “mombie.” Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the term already existed and meant something quite a bit different from what I thought was my genius idea. A mombie, according to the collective wisdom of the Internet, is a mother who was once a feminist and is now a pale shadow of her former self, caring only about cooking, cleaning, and caring for baby.

My discovery prompted my entry this past week for the online writing contest, LJ Idol, a humor piece I called Attack of the Mombies, which placed in the Top 5 in votes.

In the piece, I tried to channel Erma Bombeck, who was famously self-deprecating about her own domestic skills. As I was writing it, though, I was highly aware of the fact that few of us live at one extreme or the other. The truth is, I often enjoy cooking, while I’m in the midst of it. But while I like eating the results, it’s simply not something I spend much of my waking time pondering. It’s not that I fault mothers who do enjoy cooking; I simply find my thoughts (and most of my conscious energy) focused elsewhere.

That’s the nagging aspect of this topic that my piece — built around a simple humor device — couldn’t begin to approach. What, exactly, is feminism? And are feminism and housework mutually exclusive? My immediate response is to say no, they’re not; in fact, it’s a preposterous idea. Feminism is about expanding choices, and some women choose to spend the bulk of their time cooking, cleaning, and taking care of other household tasks.

I’d like to hear further thoughts about the feminists v. mombies debate. Where do you categorize yourself? And is it a destructive argument to be having, to begin with?

Looking forward to Belated Mommy? Name your own price for my new special-edition ebook, Now with Kung-Fu Action Grip, featuring writings about pregnancy and my toddler’s first years.

Mommy Files: Reading to Himself

Leave a reply

My little guy loves books, and it’s not unusual for him to request that I read him one immediately upon waking. This morning, however, while I was getting ready he quietly sat down and “read” a book to himself.

Now, in the past, I often heard him repeating fragments of the actual text for his books, which he’s memorized from hearing them so often. Other times, he makes a running commentary, identifying objects, colors and shapes in the pictures.

Today, it was a little different. “Reading” the book “Wiggle” by Doreen Cronin and Scott Menchin, he told his own story from the point-of-the-view of the main character, a tan dog. “I can be a circle like you,” the dog said to a ball as he rolled up like one. “I’m jumping on the bed!” the dog exclaimed on a page that showed him doing that.

Then came my favorite moment. As the dog approached a crescent moon, whose facial expression was somewhat startled, the dog said, “Hi! I’m going to eat you! You’re yummy.”

Maybe someone has told him that the moon is made of green cheese.

Wiggle cover

Seeking Equal Rights for Boys

Leave a reply

A few weeks ago I shared a link with some friends, a blog about gender assumptions, particularly when it came to boys. This stirred up a lot of discussion on my Facebook page, and it inspired me to write an open letter to children about how to respond to naysayers when it comes to challenging gender roles. The letter has been getting an extraordinarily positive response.

Before I wrote that piece, though, I approached the subject from a different way, a more personal one. I’d like to share that first draft here now.

Several boys had already arrived wearing costumes when we entered the Superhero Party held at the local YMCA. At first, I felt a little self-conscious about the fact that our Kung Fu Panda wasn’t wearing a costume, but he wasn’t the only one. As more and more boys arrived, a few of them were wearing their favorite T-shirts, whether they sported robots or dinosaurs or cars or something else entirely. But while there were both costumed and non-costumed little superheroes participating in this party, there were no girls. Nor do I imagine any boys showed up for the Princess Party held later.

As a little girl, I would’ve rather been a superhero then a princess. My mom, who kept my hair short because she said it was easier to take care of; my mom, who dressed me in pants and let me get messy and tear holes in the knees, would’ve taken me to the Superhero Party, just as my sister, who is raising a fiercely independent one-year-old girl, would do the same. It’s an easy choice, really, since parents know it’s important to raise daughters who believe in themselves, who are independent and strong. It’s a much easier decision that it might be for many parents whose sons want to join the Princess Party.

I think it’s about time that we think about how to promote equal rights for boys.

I’ve given the subject a lot of thought ever since coming across an article about a mom wrestling with gender stereotypes as they affected her son. When I shared that article on Facebook, I got a range of responses: from both male and female friends who were thrilled to see that I was coming down on the side of accepting boys, regardless of how traditionally masculine they are, and responses from other people who seemed to lay the problem at the feet of television, saying that the mother in the blog post in question should just “stop watching television and parent her child.”

If only it were so easy. If only we could protect our children from all of society’s influences simply by hitting the off button. Sadly, society’s ideas about boys and girls are not confined to television.

Since the doctors surprised me with prenatal tests confirming I would be having a boy instead of the dark-haired girl I’d imagined, I have spent countless hours pondering the right way to raise a caring, well-rounded boy. So far, I think we’re doing a good job: while KFP does possess those quintessential “boy” traits of being active and adventurous, he is also thoughtful, reflective and sensitive, traits not typically considered “boyish.”

For example, right now my son and I are in the car with our mewing cat, Luke, taking him to the vet to be weighed, since he was underweight at his annual exam a month and a half ago. As we were putting our coats on, the cat was in his carrier, mewing loudly. KFP asked me, “He’s crying?”

“Yes, he doesn’t like to go to the vet.”

“Is the sad?” he asked, a note of sympathy in his small voice.

“He’s a little scared, honey,” I told him. “He doesn’t know what to expect.”

Reaching out a chubby hand to pat the top of the carrier, he said, “Poor kitty.”

What makes me sad is the almost certain knowledge that someday, someone over whom I have no control will tell him that it’s not okay for boys to express their feelings, and that empathy is overrated.

Growing up in 2013 may be a little different than it was for me, growing up in the 1970s. Girls have more options than ever when it comes to sports, after-school activities and more. But there’s still a long ways to go. While on paper it’s readily understood that some girls want to be princesses and some girls want to slay the dragon, if you’ve ever gone shopping for children’s clothing, you know how difficult it is to find gender-neutral clothes.

While it’s acceptable and even encouraged for girls to emulate such supposedly “masculine” traits as resilience, persistence, strength, adventurousness, and bravery, boys are not encouraged to display such “feminine” traits as sensitivity, creativity, artistic sensibility, quietness, and nurturing. And in a world where it’s increasingly more likely that a father will play an active role in raising his child, boys are still discouraged from play-acting those roles with dolls.

This is why I found it so encouraging when an episode of “Sesame Street” showed one of the monsters, Telly, playing with a doll. And while initially he tried to hide his toy from another male character, he got some good advice from Gordon who, wearing a bright-pink button-down shirt, told him that it was okay for boys to play with dolls and practice being a daddy, just as it was okay for men to wear a pink shirt. So much for television being the propagator of gender stereotypes.

I’ve talked on the playground with a several parents of boys who have similar concerns. We’ve swapped notes about the difficulty, for example, of finding boys’ clothes that contain anything other than the typical primary colors. At least three of us have boys who love purple, but unless you’re a fan of the Baltimore Ravens, it’s nigh impossible to find that color on clothes that aren’t frilly and obviously made for girls. Fortunately, KFP’s other favorite color, green, is much easier to find.

Already I’ve dealt with numerous gender-based assumptions that made me contemplate what lies ahead for my boy. Our son has naturally-curly honey-blonde hair, and from the beginning, we have loved his luxurious locks. We get his hair cut about every six weeks, and at its longest, it’s barely even covered his ears. Yet, I have heard multiple comments from people in his 2-1/2 short years, either asking if he’s a girl, or even going so far as to strongly suggest that I get his hair cut shorter, in a “boy’s” cut.

We, as parents, have the first opportunity to change the thinking. Regardless of what other messages they may hear, from friends, strangers or the media, we can let them know that we support them. Whether they are football players or dancers, adventurers or artists, whether they love blue or pink, we can let them know that we accept them for whoever they are, and most importantly, that we love them.

Princess party with 'no boys' sign

Only five days left to help us get our little guy to a wedding where he’s supposed to be the ringbearer. Please check out our Indiegogo campaign: Get the Ringbearer to Illinois

Mommy Files: Changing Priorities

Leave a reply

On my personal blog this week, I wrote an essay introducing myself through my toddler, nicknamed Kung Fu Panda: Meet My Little Panda. In it, I talk about how many aspects of myself I see in my 2-1/2-year-old boy, as his personality becomes clear.

Pondering these connections also made me think about how much of my life revolves around him these days. In pre-KFP days, whether a day was good or not was defined by: how much I accomplished, how I felt, and how well things went. These days, no matter how much I achieve, my day rises or falls based on: how content he is, how well he eats, and whether he takes a nap! Before I became a mother, I underestimated how much my priorities would change. I find myself continually apologizing to friends for losing touch, because most days, it’s enough to take care of my son’s needs; keep up with household tasks like cleaning, laundry and cooking; and maybe get a little writing in.

This week on “The Simpsons,” Maggie goes through a period of self-assessment because she realizes that her mother was just as much of a high achiever in school. Yet, Maggie is determined not to turn out like her mother, and therefore, she swears that she’ll avoid such distractions as falling in love, which could lead to marriage, a family, and being a stay-at-home mom. I remember when I used to feel that way, myself, believing that my self-worth could only come from achieving something in my chosen career of writing/journalism.

If you had told that version of me — from roughly 20 years ago — about my life today, I wonder what she’d think. But my 22-year-old self could never have understood how rewarding it is to watch my son grow and develop. He is an amazing little person, and I feel like one of the best achievements of my life was bringing him into the world.

Yes, I still have career goals, but now I’m trying to find a balance between those goals and taking care of the guy in the T-Rex shirt sitting next to me.

Mommy Files: Cure for a Migraine

Leave a reply

As a busy work-at-home mom, my days are filled with ups and downs. Sometimes, however, even in the midst of an incredibly bad experience, something so wonderful happens that I simply have to smile.

About two weeks ago, in the midst of holiday preparations, the stress and uncertain weather got to me. I developed a migraine, extraordinaire. The only remedy for me: calling off work and spending the rest of the night lying in a dark room with a cool pack on my forehead. I couldn’t even take any painkiller, for fear of throwing it up.

An hour or so later, I was still lying there, feeling miserable, when my husband brought our 2-1/2-year-old boy in for a visit. He wanted to say hi to Mommy. I explained to him that I had a headache and couldn’t play or do anything fun right now.

He regarded me quietly for a moment. “Your head hurts?” he asked. I answered yes. “Want I kiss it?” he asked, offering the remedy I offer when he bumps his head on the table. I told him yes, removed the cold pack, and he planted a delicate toddler kiss on my forehead. “Feel better?” he asked me.

The headache was still there, but a buoyant happiness rose inside. “I do feel better, just a little bit,” I told him.

Woman with headache

Secrets of the Work-at-Home Mom

1 Reply

In an ideal world, I would wait until my husband got home each day to do my work, and he would watch our little Kung Fu Panda while I researched, wrote, and did other career-related tasks. In my world, it doesn’t work this way. Because I do evening transcription work at home, more or less at full-time night shift hours, any writing-related tasks must take place either during the day or on weekends.

While I admit my methods may be far from perfect, I’ve discovered a few things that work for me.

Get out of the house. I try to spend at least a couple hours each day out of the house with KFP. Whether it’s working out at the YMCA while he plays in Child Watch, or attending the weekly Toddler Story Time at the local library, or simply running errands or taking a walk, getting out of the house keeps both of us from getting cabin fever. I often spend time planning articles or working out ideas while we’re out and about, and if the mood strikes me, I can write by dictating into my voice recorder (using Dragon Naturally Speaking to transcribe it once we get home). The value of this method became more clear to me this past month, when my son and I took turns being sick, which meant staying home. By the end of it, we were both going stir crazy!
Get him involved in an activity. When it’s time to sit down at the keyboard, I make sure there’s something constructive to occupy my little guy. Whether it’s his wooden train set, a coloring book and crayons, or one of his favorite Sprout TV shows, I make sure he has something to do, some water to drink, and if it’s snack time, a snack.Then I sit down on the couch and get to work. Working on the couch, I’ve discovered, is more comfortable for both of us than trying to sit at my office desk. He knows he’s welcome to crawl up next to me and snuggle, if he likes, while Mommy works.
Take “toddler breaks.” Some breaks are built in when working with a little one. Many is the time I interrupted myself in the middle of writing a sentence because my nose told me it was time to change his diaper. In addition, I also try to remember to take breaks to spend a little time with him: reading a book or building a block tower. On the days I don’t go to the gym, I may pause to have a “dance party” with him, as we watch his favorite “Sesame Street” DVD and groove to the silly songs.
Be reasonable about goals. I try to be realistic about my daily goals. If I can write one 500-word article and do a little networking, or if I put together one poetry submission, I consider it a good day. When I have larger projects, I try to break them down into manageable steps to spread over several days. It’s not always possible to avoid overworking myself — I am, after all, still a Virgo and a Type A personality — but my son and I are both happier when my goals are reasonable and achievable.
Stay on task. Admittedly, this is the point that gives me the most trouble. It’s too easy to get distracted by personal e-mails, social networking and Web surfing. But more and more lately, I’ve tried to do a better job of maintaining focus. Since toddlers can be subject to mood swings, I’m learning it’s best to get the important stuff out of the way while he’s being cooperative. Then, if he’s still playing happily (and doesn’t need anything), I can take a few moments to check Facebook or read some friends’ blogs.

These are just a few of the things that work for me. Holly Reisem Hanna has written a very informative blog entry, “10 Ways Work at Home Moms Can Entertain Their Children without Using Technology,” which I recently discovered while searching for Christmas gift ideas to suggest people get me.

I definitely already use creative play toys. In our case, we have a wooden toy train set which provides hours of fun; two different types of building blocks; a flotilla of little construction trucks and other do-it-yourself toys; and a bin full of books my toddler loves to peruse himself. I’m looking into expanding our craft options beyond just crayons, and I’m also going to feed his musical interests with yet another musical toy — a toddler DJ station — to add to his drum set, play guitar, keyboards, shakers and harmonica. The best part of him making his own music is that I can participate by singing along, even while typing away!

What are some other tips you’d share?

The Duck Family and the Evil Robot

Leave a reply

I am writing this on my phone while my son plays with his ducks in the tub. The large duck with the blue bow around its neck he calls Daddy Duck. The slightly smaller yellow duck, he calls Mommy Duck. The little plain yellow duck (as distinguished from his pirate duck, football duck, lifeguard duck and singer duck) is the little boy duck.

The ducks are telling each other “I love you” and giving each other kisses and hugs. Seeing this sort of play always makes me deliriously happy inside. Of course, after a few minutes of such lovey-dovey cuddling, something inevitably happens. Sometimes a robot attacks. Sometimes the football duck interferes and causes trouble. Today, they are practicing diving, which he started doing with his bath toys after watching the U.S. swim team in the 2012 Summer Olympics. This is apparently a risky activity, because sometimes they fall out of the tub instead of diving into water. But the ducks are checking in on each other: “Are you OK?” And still telling each other “It’s OK,” and “I love you,” and “Good job.”

I needed this moment. After three weeks of various family members convalescing with colds, and after the car broke down, one week out of the shop, and rain colluded to keep us penned up together, I needed this. My sweet, funny toddler can also be a clingy, demanding task master, especially when in the grip of cabin fever. I’m not always as patient as I should be, especially when toys are being shoved into my hands as I’m trying to call the garage to check on the repairs. At such times, I’m more like the robot duck, fire in my eyes, intoning, “No toys. Mommy’s busy.” But then, the tears come, and oh, those tears.

Toddlers are so fragile, and he will cry at so many things that wouldn’t phase an older child. A dropped toy, a rebuffed demand, and real hurts from tripping and injuring that baby body I’m always telling him to protect. No matter what caused it — he will even cry if one of us says “Ow” too loudly because he stepped on a foot or whipped his hard head into a chin — I always comfort him. I can’t help it: I’m a sucker for tears.

No one is perfect, and despite the best intentions, despite all the parenting books and articles you might read, you will from time to time say or do the wrong thing: the thing that, instead of redirecting your child, winds him up more; the thing that, instead of calming her, makes her cry.

After a bad day, when we were on each other’s bad sides, it’s good to see that the moments I read and played with him made him happy. It’s even better to realize that his internal dialogue — and his idea of families — is by and large a positive, supportive, empowering one. And yes, some days there will be evil robots, but we’ll get through it together, with love.

Myths of Motherhood

Leave a reply

More than anything right now, I want to take a nap. And I will take one, as soon as I’ve finished writing this. My toddler will probably take one with me, but he’s just as likely to sit on my stomach, as I recline on the couch, while he watches educational programming on PBS Kids. Some would consider this bad parenting.

Let me let you in on a little secret: anything that keeps you sane and that doesn’t endanger your child is not bad parenting; it’s survival. If you’re going crazy without adult conversation, there’s no harm in chatting on the phone with a friend or checking your e-mail while the little one plays with toys. That is not bad parenting (unless your child is playing with laundry bleach).

One of the pervasive myths of motherhood is that mothers have to be martyrs. If you’re not spending 100 percent of your waking hours enjoying “quality time” with your little Pookie, you’re a bad mommy. Quality time, generally speaking, involves riveting your attention onto them while engaging in something that involves a valuable learning component, such as Exploring Shapes by creating a craft that would make Martha Stewart bow down in awe. Guess what? Tickling their feet and singing a rhyming song is just as good.

If, like me, you divide your day into sections of productivity — writing, editing, promoting — and sections of toddler time, don’t think you should wear a scarlet “B” for “Bad Mommy.” Chances are, your child is getting just as much mental and developmental growth from experimenting with toys and flipping through books on his or her own. (Again, provided you provide age-appropriate toys and a child-friendly play space, and they’re not playing in the alley with an oily rag.) Trust me: when he needs you, there will be no hiding, and when she has a diaper, you will know.

Another pervasive myth of motherhood: once you have the baby, the weight will come right off. Some people tell you that, as long as you breast feed, you burn an extra 500 calories a day and will lose the weight in no time. In my case, while I was nursing, my body seemed to want to stay fluffy, in order to be a more comfortable place for the baby to relax.

The worst part is that my body seems to be completely fine with staying the way it is. Even though I have been trying to follow the same weight-loss plan that helped me lose and maintain 70 pounds of weight loss before getting pregnant, nothing seems to work now. Perhaps it’s because I’m over 40 now, and my metabolism has retired. One friend thinks it’s because of the late hours I have to keep, doing transcription work at night.

Honestly, I just think my body has decided it’s pleased to be plump. I think it’s going to take something drastic to get past my impasse: either hiring a personal trainer or making enough money through my writing that I can afford to ditch the evening transcription work. One can always dream.

One final myth you’ve no doubt heard: Mothers always know best. Upon taking your new little bundle back home, everyone from nurses to family members assure you that you’ll know what to do if you simply follow your instincts. If only it were that easy. There will be plenty of moments when you’re simply at wit’s end: and your crying, red-faced bundle of joy isn’t giving you any hints.

It’s OK to be frustrated. It’s OK to feel clueless. It’s OK to doubt yourself. In fact, it’s absolutely normal. If you didn’t go through a period of adjustment, you’re probably super human. Or a character on a 1950s sit-com. But yes, it will get easier, and yes, you will figure it out. It might involve calling your mom more often than you did when you took your first apartment. It might involve finding a support group — either in person or online — of likeminded moms who can share tips. It might mean relying on your equally clueless spouse or life partner for moral support and assistance. But you’ll make it. And you don’t have to be Donna Reed to do so.

Now that I’ve fulfilled my commitment to write this, I’m going to have some quality time with my son. First, however, that long-awaited nap.

On Toddler Time

Leave a reply

Roughly ten minutes have elapsed since I sat down to write this essay. No, I have not been sitting here pondering how to begin. Rather, I have been spooning a container of baby yogurt into my 2-year-old’s mouth. You would think that I would have fed him before sitting down to write, but things don’t always work the way I’d like them to any more.

The yogurt container in question was sitting on the coffee table, having been rejected by my little guy ten minutes earlier. Naturally, the minute I pulled out my laptop, he walked up to me with a spoonful of yogurt and, with eyes as big as an animated character, handed me the spoon. Considering that he’s been apparently subsisting on air and water lately, whenever I am given the gift of the option of feeding him, I jump right on it.

While we have established a pretty regular routine, each day is different, and I’ve learned to adjust. One day, my toddler happily helps with errands: babbling cheerfully as we cross off items on my shopping list “Apples!” he exclaims. “Honey! Rogurt!” (That, of course, is his mispronunciation of yogurt.) On these days, shoppers and cashiers alike coo over him: “He’s so cute! Mommy’s little helper.”

On other days, he rails against the injustice of being forced to sit in a shopping cart. If he will allow me to put him down, we can still shop, albeit slowly as he “helps me” steer the cart. But if he keeps insisting “Up! Up!” then I have two choices: either put him back in the cart, where he’ll wail throughout the entire shop, a noise that’s probably audible in the next county, or I balance him on my hip, pushing the cart with the other hand. Either way, I’m likely to scan my list for only the essential items and leave the rest for another day.

The shopping list isn’t the only thing to get reordered according to my new priorities. I struggle to work in writing and social networking between diaper changes, naptime, and “Mommy time.” On his most cooperative days, my budding train engineer happily amuses himself for hours by lining up all of his cars on the coffee table and pushing them, one by one, off the edge. (This is why toddlers should never be hired to drive real trains.) Even on those days, though, he’ll climb up on the couch next to me, demanding, “Hugs, hugs.” If I’m in the middle of a thought, I often drop it. So if you’ve been waiting for an e-mail response from me for months, you should probably try again. Chances are, it fell victim to a hug.

If it weren’t for my smart phone, I’d be even more of a mess. I’ve created several “to do” lists on an app that allows me to schedule regular deadlines as well as one-time tasks. It even has an optional reminder that will send you an alert when your’re overdue for a task. Usually, by the third or fourth time I’ve hit “snooze” on the reminder to trim the cat’s claws, I actually do it.

The sad thing is, I was never terribly organized to begin with. So it should come as little surprise that the day-to-day tedium (and sleep deprivation, but that’s a topic for another time) are taking their toll. Following the advice of a fellow writer mom, however, I’m lowering my expectations. I’m praising myself for small accomplishments: even if that means a mere 600 words.

These little accomplishments are important, and they add up. Today, however, I don’t know what makes me proudest: the 600 words or feeding my little guy a whole container of yogurt.

Introduction

Leave a reply

My husband has more gray in his hair than many first-time dads. If you look carefully, you’ll see fine wrinkles in the corners of my eyes. Our two-year-old son is a compact bundle of energy, with golden curls, large brown eyes, and unmatched energy.

We have sometimes been mistaken for his grandparents. I used to tell myself it was because of his father’s hair, which started graying in college, but I’ve also faced such confusion when I was out alone with my son. I have learned to laugh it off, joking that sometimes I feel like a grandmother, but really, I’m his mommy. Still, each time someone says it, it hurts.

Families like ours are becoming increasingly more common. Women are waiting longer to have families, waiting until they finish not only college degrees but sometimes advanced degrees. Or in cases such as ours, waiting for a second marriage and a spouse more suitable to be a father. Other mothers have difficulty making sense of their own desires, and hold off on child bearing until they feel the biological clock running out. Some people wait because of career considerations, others because of insurance, financial or medical issues, and some have difficulty conceiving. Whatever the reason, there are more and more of us “belated mommies.” We should bond together.

Having children later was not unusual for my family. Both my grandmothers waited until they were about 40 to have their children. In my maternal grandmother’s case, she was too busy raising her younger siblings, a task which fell upon her, when her mother died. Not until her 30s, when she met my grandfather — who fell in love with her voice when she was a telephone operator — did she find time for her own life.

In the case of my paternal grandmother, she and my grandfather had been together for roughly eight years when she finally got pregnant with my father. I never asked her if this was by design or if she had difficulty conceiving. Tragically, my paternal grandfather died of a heart attack before she gave birth. So in the 1940s, when single mothers were devalued, she not only raised my father alone but was probably anywhere from 10 to 20 years older than most other mothers she encountered.

My story is different, but in some ways, it’s the same. A first marriage, at age 26, dissolved within a year, with our divorce finalized close to our second anniversary. It’s took a lot of false starts and personal growth before I found another man I wanted to marry. Even then, at 33 I did not want to rush into anything. Shortly after we wed, near my 37th birthday, he was laid off work, losing his medical insurance. Since I was a freelance writer and transcriptionist with no health insurance, we felt it was best to wait until he found a full-time job with insurance.

Luckily, I got pregnant with our little panda almost as soon as we started trying. It’s almost as if we simply willed our son into being, this despite the fact that we’d been warned that, as older parents, we might have more difficulty. I guess genes were on my side.

It is a wonderful miracle, bringing life into the world. It is challenging for all parents, but older parents face different challenges. All parents are tired, but older parents might grow winded faster. All parents hear unwanted advice from friends and strangers, but older parents also face rude assumptions. No one tells a young parent that they’re too inexperienced to have a child, but people seem to revel in hinting that older parents are unfit.

There are more of us “belated mommies” all the time, and yet too few of us are sharing our stories. I thought it was about time to change that.