- I had my first child when I was 25.
- After she grew up, my husband suggested we have another baby.
- At 45, I had our second daughter, and in a way, they are both only children.
I had my first child, Daniella, at 25. Before her, I’d had a mobile disco — a business as glittery as a mirror ball and twice as busy.
It had included children’s parties, which meant I’d always had a miniature audience to charm and exhaust. With my own child, there were mermaids to marvel at and karaoke duets for me to sing to.
Daniella, or Danny as she preferred, was a pint-sized marvel — a firework in the shape of a child. Life became a permanent source of fun, an unending string of confetti-covered moments, usually cut out and scattered by Danny.
At 45, I had my second child, and in a way, they were both only children.
Danny had a life of her own
Birthday cakes came in garish shades, sunken in last-minute mishaps, and filled with jelly to create an animal pond. I carved Halloween pumpkins with the determination and skill of a blindfolded drunk, but Danny was thrilled. There were talking teddy bears who secretly ate the shortbread, red-haired trolls with a knack for gobbling chocolate cake, and ornamental reindeer with noses as red as toffee apples.
Of course, there was Santa, the magical burglar who could sneak into houses with locked doors and chimney spouts the size of a fist. We’d whisper about presents as we sat with sticky tape and wrapping paper. I was the queen of glue and glitter.
And then Danny grew up, fell in love, and became a digital artist with an Instagram account that made my head spin.
Friends assured me I had a rich repository of memories to draw on, but memory isn’t a substitute for presence. It’s a snow globe with no one to shake it or an unexpected pang when you see the cooldrink you no longer need to buy.
I watched other people’s children grow up through the slow-motion lens of social media, and there it was — a niggling that felt embarrassingly like jealousy. I was thrilled for Danny and gutted for myself. Danny and I were still close, but for me, the glitter of childhood had all settled.
My husband suggested a baby in our 40s
So when my husband mentioned that a baby would be the cherry on top of our very fine cake, I was thrilled. Who wouldn’t be? We were happy, settled, and — crucially — I’d stopped trying to discover who I was in every reflective surface. A baby felt like a dream.
And, remarkably, at 45, we got our miracle. A July lockdown baby, no less — born into a world of masks and hand sanitizer, where a mask muffled first lullabies. We called her Ava, a name suggested by her sister. From the moment she arrived, she’s had a fire in her soul.
Ava’s magic is in how she makes you move. Not just physically, though, she’s certainly skilled at getting you off the chair, even if it takes a few extra groans and strategic knee adjustments now that we’re in our 40s. No, she makes you really move — heart and soul. She’s the kind of child who laughs with her head thrown back because the puppy is so wild. Life with her is loud, chaotic, and utterly worth it.
They are both only children
In many ways, my children are both only children, separated by the better part of two decades and united by a shared adoration.
From the first moment Ava entered Danny’s world — a whirlwind of peanut-buttered hands and chaotic affection — they’ve been inseparable. Ava chased Danny’s dignified cat through the house with a fistful of purloined kibble, an act of high comedy Danny met not with outrage but with handmade toys and laughter. Ava repaid her with sticky hugs and the kind of uninhibited love only toddlers can muster.
Raising a child in your 20s is like being handed a surprise pop quiz every morning — you’re winging it, caffeinated and hopeful. Raising a toddler in your 40s is more like showing up to an exam you know well, only to find the questions have changed and the paper is heavier. Parenting Ava is both easier and infinitely more exhausting. I’m more relaxed, yes, but my knees would very much like a word.
Still, there’s joy in both seasons of motherhood: the first, wide-eyed and frantic, and the second, measured but no less magical. I’ve made cakes that flop in both eras but don’t care much for perfection.
And the best part? The nest isn’t empty. It’s full of laughter, peanut butter smears, and life.
