Sazzle Blogs

Becoming a Mam at 41 (and Loving a One-Year-Old Life I Never Planned)

Becoming a Mam (Mum to you southerners) at 40 – After Living Very Fully, Thanks)

Next month I turn 42. My partner turns 46. We are pretending this is absolutely fine while stretching things that should not need stretching just to sit on the floor. We are also the parents who think carefully before committing to soft play.

I became a mam at 40. To a one year old. Which is equal parts magical and unhinged. I am raising a tiny human who moves at the speed of light and believes sleep is optional. Meanwhile I need a coffee before conversation and a plan before standing up.

The truth is, I was never totally sure I wanted a child. And for a long time, I was definitely not sure I had met the right partner to be the father of one. I had a full life. A really full one. I travelled, worked, went out, stayed out and generally did exactly what I wanted, when I wanted. I was not sitting around waiting for motherhood to happen.

I have always loved children though. Properly loved them. I have two nieces and a nephew and I treated them like they were my own. I spent every spare moment and every spare penny on them and happily took on the role of fun, overly invested auntie. That part came naturally. Becoming a mother just did not feel like a necessity. Until, suddenly, it did.

It was during Covid and my late thirties that something shifted. Life went quiet. The distractions disappeared. And I realised there was something missing. Not in a dramatic way. Just a gentle but persistent feeling that maybe I wanted more than the life I had already lived so fully.

Then I met my partner. And for the first time, the idea of having a child felt right. Not rushed. Not forced. Just right.

What followed was IVF. Which is not romantic or gentle or relaxing in any way. It is appointments, injections, emotional rollercoasters and trying to carry on like a normal human while silently obsessing over everything. Hope becomes something you manage very carefully.

When our baby arrived, the joy was huge and the disbelief even bigger. After years of uncertainty and then years of effort, suddenly there was a tiny person calling the shots. Mostly at night.

Now we are deep in one year old life. It is loud, chaotic and endlessly entertaining. Our child does not care how old we are. They just want snacks, cuddles and someone to chase them while quietly questioning their life choices. We love fiercely. We worry less. And we are tired in a way that feels almost impressive.

Doing this later in life has its perks. Especially for someone like me. I’ve matured for sure. We’re financially comfortable & I’m where I want to be career wise. We do not compare ourselves to anyone else (well maybe I do a little). Our party days are well & truly over and I’m happy to sit in of a weekend evening, playing with my little one. I know prior to Covid, I’d have really struggled with that & as I am a social bird and that was my way of letting steam off. I feel being an older parent, we know who we are. We know what matters. And we know how lucky we are to be here.

As another birthday month rolls around, I am not afraid of getting older. Age gave me perspective. Age gave me resilience. And age gave me the clarity to know exactly when this was right.

I might be an older mam. We might be older parents.

But we lived first. We chose this deliberately (and it’s costed a pretty penny) And we are grateful every single day. Even when my back disagrees.