Babies, Brain Surgery, and Bifocals

I am 54 years old. I live with my husband, Mike, and our two children, ages twelve and nine. Age nine, you say?

I had always planned on having twelve children. I was one of eight children, my mother one of fifteen, and her mother one of sixteen. I didn't think that infertility would be a problem. Yet, despite ten years of infertility studies with seven different doctors, I was never able to have children in my first marriage. We eventually adopted four children.

Then, fourteen years ago, I married Mike, who had five children. Seven months after we were married, I had a craniotomy for a brain tumor. In addition to leaving me totally deaf in one ear, removing the tumor had destroyed one of my balance systems. At first, I staggered around like a drunken sailor until I learned to walk in a straight line again. Car rides were an ordeal. Turning a corner or going over a little bump seemed like riding on a roller coaster, ferris wheel, and bumper car, all combined. And then, soon after the craniotomy, we learned that there was a reason for the new sensation of nausea that I had also begun to experience.

Mike and I went to a medical center, where I left a specimen for a pregnancy test. While waiting for the results, we went to the optical department, where I was fitted for my first pair of bifocals, then returned to the main waiting room. The nurse came to us, flourishing the paper on which the test results were recorded. "Congratulations, Mrs. Carson. You're pregnant!" My hand flew up to my mouth like the Miss America contestant who realizes she just won. My reaction was one of shock and tears, even as Mike joyously embraced me.

The familiar phrase, "life begins at 40," took on a whole new meaning. Trying to adapt to having only one balance system because of the craniotomy, being nauseated because of the pregnancy, and trying to adjust to new bifocals, while continuing to work full time, as well as blending families and running a large household, were simply too much. The bifocals had to go.

Thus, I gave birth to my first homemade baby at the age of 41. I didn't mind having a baby in my declining years, but to see the baby, I had to hold her at arms' length.

After Merrie Anne was born, people asked us if we were planning to have more children. I would smile and say, "I think two miracles are too much to expect, don't you?" And so, Evan's birth at the age of 44 was a total surprise to us. (Actually, Evan was a newborn; I was 44.) No, his birth was not a surprise to us; we had been expecting it for several months by then. (Actually, Evan was never really born; he was just surgically removed.) How well I remember the obstetrician standing at my bedside in the hospital, prior to his decision to perform the necessary Cesarean section, as I painfully labored to bring forth this child. "Pardon the expression," he said, "but 'the old gray mare just ain't what she used to be.'"

Strangers assume that these children are our grandchildren. We tell our children that they are lucky to have "old" parents. I explain to them that young parents can be rather intense—but we're waaay too tired to be intense.

And I'm going to slug the next person who tells me that having children in your old age keeps you young. They keep me exhausted! When the children were small, scampering around, I would say, "Be still, and be quiet." When they ignored me and continued to scamper, I would say, "All right then, run around. I will be obeyed!"

I should have known that there would come a day when Merrie Anne would realize that her mother didn't look quite like the younger mothers of her little friends. I had facetiously taught Merrie to preface her special requests of me with the words, "Dear, sweet, kind, beautiful Mother...," but now she wasn't buying it.

She was four years old when, one day, I was lying on the couch and she was sitting on my stomach. It was one of those special bonding moments between mother and daughter. I said to her, "Oh, Merrie, how did you choose to come to our family?" She squinted her eyes, as though looking into the distance, and replied, "Well, when I was up in heaven, I looked and I looked, and I thought I was choosing a pretty mama."

Not long after, I was speaking to her of her father's qualities, of his kindness and love, and of the wonderful man he is. She paused, obviously puzzled, and exclaimed, "Then why did he choose somebody who looks so old?"

Another time, she sat thoughtfully, pondering the Bible story Daddy had shared with her that morning of John the Baptist and his unfortunate demise. She asked, "Mama, were John the Baptist's eyes open or closed?" "I don't know; I wasn't there," I replied. "What did you say?" she pressed. I repeated, "I don't know; I wasn't there." Incredulous, she questioned, "Are you jokin' me?"

The older nine children (adopted and step-children) have long been on their own. For the first time in my life, I am part of a "normal" family: a father, a mother, and two biological children. Yes, I am an older mother with children ages twelve and nine, and they fill my life with joy and love, with daily expressions of gratitude added to my own.