Okay, a LOT of you know this.  A chunk of the people that read this blog day-to-day (and those that bothered to read the “About” page that I stress over on a daily basis), know that I am a (insert gasp here) “older mom”.

I conceived my son exactly one week after my 40th birthday.  And for those of you that are closer to 30 than 40 heed this warning – things in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear.  This middle-age shit sneaks up on you. 

The struggle we had to bring Harry into being is something that is going to need to wait for another blog.  The tests, the tears, the unnecessary stress inflicted by a very-well-meaning medical establishment are just not what’s on my mind today.  But it is never far in the background, and it does have an impact on how I see myself as a mother.

Life choices are all about trade-offs, and nobody should place themselves in a position to judge how what the price was for the decisions that YOU made.  Like probably 95% of the people reading this blog, the course of my life was mainly intentional, and somewhat incidental.  It’s a worn phrase, but you get the cards life deals you – it’s how you choose to play them that ultimately counts.

So, in short, I CHOSE to delay motherhood.  I can list a multitude of factors – graduate school, a failed first marriage, career pressure, financial insecurity – but the basic truth of the matter is that I delayed it because I did not really feel the passage of time.  People seem to think that women delay having children because they are self-centered ‘have it all’ products of our materialistic society.  But, I can tell you that, if I am representative, that we are being given short shrift.  Most of us “late bloomers” were simply busy living life as it came and the thought of life as a finite quantity just didn’t make much of an impact on our psyche.  I feel like same person now as I was 15 years ago, only with worse knees.  I attribute feeling a bit more tired, not to age, but to being desperately out of shape.  Basically, I just don’t FEEL like an “older” mother.

Except in one important respect.

I covet my time.

When statistically you have more years behind than ahead of you, and you are given a major, major reason to seriously contemplate that, your priorities make a major paradigm shift.  As an “older mom” I have things I could not give him as a twenty-something – more financial security, and a lot more patience.  But I have traded this for time.  I most likely will not have the years to spend in his company that I would have if he had come to my life in my younger years.

I have heard all the comforting arguments of “Oh, you could live to 100, you know!” and “Anyone can get hit by a bus tomorrow”, but the fact remains that I count my moments with my child in terms of quality not quantity.  The double whammy of being an older mom and a working mom means there are some things upon which I will not compromise, and some child-rearing advice I will not take.

My child does not cry himself to sleep EVER.  If he wakes and cries in the middle of the night, Mommy is there to soothe and rock him.  Because I know that Mommy-hugs-and-kisses will only heal his hurts and fears for a short time, and I covet that time during which I am the bringer of comfort.  I will not always be here to rock him in the middle of the night – and he will not always call for me first.

Despite many kind offers – I do not want an evening off to myself.  From the time he meets me at the front door until his little heavy eyelids close is a time I covet.  I will splash in bubble baths until my hands prune and sing him lullabies every night to sleep for as long as he will stand it.  There is a time when his evening activities will not include a Mommy clapping at his every attempt to balance a block on his head.  There will be a time when my nose and ears aren’t the most fascinating things in his life.  The movies will be there on DVD, and the restaurants will be less trendy and easier to get into later, when he wants my car keys more for their actual utility than because he likes the noise they make.

If my son isn’t welcome somewhere – I probably shouldn’t be there either.  The annoyances attendant to the “adult fun” I had in abundance in my crazier youth have taken all the sting out of this hardship.  I mean, give up the chance to have obnoxious, drunken, and usually not-very-attractive men throw up on my shoes?  The chance to come home and peel off smoke-saturated clothing and have the warm wine glow give way in the harsh light of morning to a massive migraine?  Oh, woe.

Basically, the best thing I have to offer my child is the realization that the sacrifices we make as parents are gifts.  They are gifts from God that tell us to slow down and cherish time.  Covet time.  It is our most precious commodity.

Somebody told me that you cannot spoil a child with what is given from the heart.  If you give in because he has worn you down or worn you out, you are spoiling.  But if you give of yourself out of joy, because you genuinely cherish your moments together, you teach them the truest meaning of love.

It’s just one of those rare and fortunate cases where selfishness and generosity intersect.