As a child, each day passes by like a slow-moving river, meandering around the turns and bends of the muddy bank. It moves ever so leisurely and time is your best friend - your sweet friend, gliding with you on the tire swing in the midst of a gloriously lazy summer afternoon. Hours seems to go on for days and you dash from here and there, flitting about gleefully with no regard for the rhythmic movements of that ominous second hand on the clock.
As we grow, time begins to change subtly; we become more aware of the clock and those hands. As if by surprise, suddenly you can't believe how those precious seconds dash by; you find yourself trying to desperately grasp for little bits and pieces as they fly past you with ever-increasing speed. And with every fiber of our being, we hope and try and sometimes fail to savor life's sweet moments before they are simply gone, a memory.
I became pregnant at the age of 34. I was at that savoring stage, hoping and grasping for more of that priceless commodity, TIME. I felt lucky. I felt elated. I felt tired. And I felt like the sands of time were falling at an alarming rate. I was very much aware that time was running out.
I knew I was on the older spectrum of pregnant women. I knew about the dreaded number, "35". I knew there were risks, possible complications, and issues that could arise. I knew these things. But I desperately wanted to have a child. And so, when the time came and things worked as they should, when the word 'pregnant' magically appeared on that digital test stick, I knew it was my time. And I knew a sweet joy that I'd never felt before - despite the late hour of this miracle in my life.
My introduction to becoming a late-blooming mother came in my first appointment with the obstetrician's office. After filling out countless papers, signing my name to various colored forms, answering questions and enduring a barrage of tests, the tech casually mentioned the phrase "elderly primigravida". I balked. It was a horrible phrase, a bad-tasting label. I'm not certain why it evoked such a strong emotional response - perhaps it was the coursing hormones - but I felt a bit offended, even a bit hurt.
It wasn't by my choice to have waited this long. But life doesn't always follow the plans you have so carefully etched out in your mind. It doesn't follow your game plan for the life you want to lead. I got married after 30. We needed time to adjust to this new life together. We both wanted a child, but it didn't come until the looming deadline - 35 - was smashing into my head like giant brass cymbals. And we were lucky. It happened fast and without too much effort.
Still, I couldn't escape that title. I hate to admit it, but it bothered me for more than a little while. But then, as with all things, I moved on. Life changed gears again and I had to hold on for the ride.
Now that my son is nearing the age of 2, I can look back and see things from a different perspective as time has marched on, shading my memories. Being older and pregnant was difficult. I worked hard to avoid the risks, where possible: I tried to eat well, exercised 4-5 days each week, slept on my left side, and tried to take extra special care of that "elderly" pregnant body. I wanted to beat the odds, to fight against what I saw as an unfair label. I wanted to prove that just because I was a little older didn't mean that I couldn't do it. There were a couple of bumps in the road that may or may not have been caused by my old age, but I wouldn't change the experience because life taught me things and in the end, handed me a sweet, rosy baby.
While time is no longer my friend, it has found a new and eager companion in my little boy. This new, little life grabs Time by the hand and rushes about, much as I did as a carefree child. And through his eyes, I remember.
