As my husband pointed out today - we are both almost at the dreaded 40th birthday milestone; I have 7 months to go, and he has a couple of years. We've thought and talked a great deal about age and aging since our son was born. I became a mother for the first time at the ripe age of 37, that's six years past my mother's age when she had me, and I've always considered her to be an old parent. My parents are in their seventies and obviously want to be part of their only grandson's life as much as they can, but it's hard not to let one's mind do the calculations and wonder if they will get to see their great-grandchildren. What's worse - if our son follows our example and waits until his thirties to start a family, we will be even older grandparents!
People are always telling me to cherish the days of our son being little, and I don't know if it's possible to understand that without going through it first. He's two years old now, and I already miss how he was when he was newborn and couldn't do anything for himself; when he was a little older and we were thrilled with every slightest indication that he would start walking soon - but now much easier it was not to worry whether everything in the house was baby-proof! When he breezed through 18 months and headed for his second birthday without showing much inclination for speaking - not even "Mummy" or "Daddy" - we were impatient and telling ourselves that we should not worry, even while we sighed and calmly told anxious grandparents that he would speak when he was ready and that there was nothing wrong with him - and now he drives us crazy with calling us constantly, every few seconds. When I find myself getting frustrated with the shrill barrage of "Mummy! Mummy!" I remind myself that there will come a time when he won't want to deal with us, will need his own space instead of constantly craving our interaction, and it makes each time he wants my attention precious, instead of annoying.