I had my last baby two weeks before I turned 40. In the world of modern medicine that’s considered straight up geriatric.
After I suffered a miscarriage I wasn’t sure I’d get pregnant again. You know, on account of my senior citizen status. Yet, with the cards stacked against me and one wonky ovary, I did.
That miracle just turned two.
And I want to tell you something. Having a baby at 40, compared to my first one at 31 feels like I’ve lived two different lives. My younger little spitfire makes me feel 80. She’s found her very loud voice. If there were scholarships for most bloodcurdling tantrums, she’d be on a full-ride to Harvard. I’m convinced that nothing makes you feel more out of shape than parenting a two-year old in your forties.
I’ve had a career filled with very high-pressured jobs. Impossible-to-please bosses. Long hours. Tons of cross-country travel. Deadlines. Working myself to the bone.
But ALL of that pales in comparison to being ruled by adorable tiny tyrants. I’m working harder than I ever have in my entire life. But I’ll take a wet slobbery toddler kiss any day of the week over happy hour.
