Today is my youngest son’s 12th birthday. As kids often do, he was playing a numbers game out loud the other day. “So when I’m 20, you’ll be how old?” I said, “Just add 40 to whatever age you are.” “Oh, right,” he replied. “So when I’m 40, you’ll be 80?” I nodded.
In a previous post, I shared how my youngest son was an “extraordinary birthday gift” because he was born two days before my birthday.
He is now the same age that his oldest brother was when he was born (as shown in photo).
My husband and I knew what we were getting into when we attempted pregnancy. Besides my history of miscarriages, we understood that I would be 40 years older than our youngest child. In many respects, I have been able to enjoy my youngest son more. Since he was my fifth child, I was comfortable with attachment parenting and didn’t feel the need to defend nursing my baby on demand and carrying him wherever I went.
My mother was 47 years old when she gave birth to my youngest sister. I remember the excitement in my mom’s voice when she showed me the “at home” pregnancy test. At the time, I was a rather cynical cafeteria Catholic, so I was a little taken aback with her positive reaction.
My youngest sister kept my mother “young” for years. As for me, I have never regretted the decision to be open to life at age 40. In fact, I have always thanked God for my “baby.”
Happy Birthday, Paul!
copyright 2011 Ellen Gable Hrkach