I reclined on the narrow hospital-style bed, there in the doctor’s office, while the monitors attached around my ever-growing middle measured my baby’s heartbeat and movements. A few feet away was an empty bed with a curtain providing privacy should it be needed.
The baby kicked and moved and her heartbeat sounded like galloping horses as it accelerated just as it’s supposed to do. My nurse, one of the friendliest I’ve ever encountered, alternated between chatting with me and charting things in the computer.
About that time the phone on her desk rang, and she answered saying, “Sure, yes, I’ll be right there to get her.” She hung up. “You’re going to have someone join you for your last few minutes; I’ll be right back,” as she left the room to go get her new, unexpected patient.
A few moments later they were back and through the curtain, I could hear her getting the other woman situated. Always professional, the nurse spoke quietly as she verified the new patient’s birthdate. “January 2nd, 2001,” I heard the woman’s voice answer, and my eyes immediately popped up from where they’d been scrolling my phone.
2001…that can’t be right, I thought to myself as I began to silently calculate the difference between our ages thinking for one crazed moment that I must be remembering my own birthday incorrectly.
The difference was vast.
You see, I wasn’t born in the 2000s. I wasn’t born in the ’90s. Heck, I wasn’t even born in the ’80s which explains the moment or two it took me to realize that yes indeed, someone born in the 2000s, is old enough to be a mama and that someone born in the…ahem…not ’80s, ’90s, or 2000s is indeed on the “advanced” side of things.
The fact that I was technically considered “advanced maternal age” a few years ago when my little boy was born must make me REALLY advanced maternal age now, though most of the time I don’t think about it. I mean sure I can tell a difference in how I feel some days, especially here toward the end of this pregnancy as compared to how I felt carrying my daughter almost ten years ago, but on the whole, I feel pretty good.
But today my age stopped me in my tracks for a few moments when I realized I was literally more than two decades older than the young woman with whom I was sharing a room.
That’s a bit to take in, at least it was for me. Two decades?!
“How OLD am I?”, I thought to myself while quickly tapping out a text to my husband explaining what had just happened.
Seconds later, three laughing emoji’s emerged on my phone, along with the message, “Oh…that’s hilarious!”
I joined him in his laughter.
I’m not a young mom. Really I never have been. I’ve never been pregnant in my twenties and have no idea what that’s like. Most would say I was “late” having children, but am I really? Perhaps I’m just right on time with God’s plan for me and wherever you are—you are right on time for God’s plan for you.
Sometimes I do think about my children, especially this newest miracle, and how old I’ll be when she graduates high school or when she potentially gets married. I pray God grants me the years needed to see her and all my children grow up well into adulthood. Sometimes I do think about the fact that I’m not a young mom.
But God makes no mistakes. He has given me the gift of three children, and I’m beyond blessed to be their mama, young or not. And if he’s blessed you with children, whether you’re young or more “advanced” you can trust God knows how old you are. It’s no surprise to Him.
God’s timing isn’t ours, but His is perfect.
So no matter your age or stage of life, hold on to God and trust in His plan. His plans are good. His ways are perfect
