by Faith Martin

Copyright 1998 Faith Martin

Permission granted to print a single copy.

Mother and I were discussing my sister-in-law who was lying exhausted on a sofa in the next room. "Well," I said, "after all, she is pretty old to be pregnant." I was sure advanced age was the reason she was tired.

"Of course she isn't," my mother almost huffed back. Mother knew that entertaining in-laws, as my sister-in-law had been doing for three days, was sufficient reason for any woman to feel tired. And she would grant that pregnancy might be a factor in my sister-in-law's fatigue, but her age was of no account.

It was some years later, when I began my own childbearing, that I thought to ask my mother how old she was when I was born, and I began to understand why she thought my sister-in-law, in her late twenties at the time of that conversation, was not too old to be pregnant. Mother was thirty-nine when she gave birth to me, and her own mother was thirty-nine when she was born. I was my Mother's last child, but Grandmother had two more children in her forties.

I became an adult when women married young and had their children quickly, in a cluster if possible. The first of my three children was born when I was twenty-five--almost a bit late to get started in popular thinking--and the last when I was thirty. At that time medical advice ran against childbearing any later than thirty-four and, by the time we were ready to consider a fourth child, I was already thirty-two, approaching the "age of risk," as they called it then. I remember asking my obstetrician what he thought about my becoming pregnant. Even though I was in good health, he was only cautiously encouraging about the immediate, and he gently discouraged delaying the attempt. Health risks for mother and child were just too great as the age of the mother increased.

Factors more important than my age went into our decision to limit our family to three; but when we prayed and thought things over we were definitely intimidated by the "now or never" mood of medical opinion. Looking back, I am surprised that I gave little weight to my mother's age at my birth or the even more striking example of my grandmother.

Now we are in the midst of a new social trend. Women are bearing children later in life--not because they have to, but because they want to. The first wave of career women are reaching the close of their reproductive years. A number of them are attempting pregnancy in their late thirties and early forties. In some Christian circles older married women are giving birth as a result of a moral stand against birth control.

Talk shows and newspaper columnists are discussing the social implications of late motherhood. Interest centers on whether older women make better mothers, but little is said from the child's point of view, especially the increased prospects of losing one's mother at an early age.

Recently a young friend lost her mother. As I moved about my kitchen preparing food for a meal following the funeral, my mind ran sympathetically over my friend's preceding year and all that she had experienced: the illness of her mother and the birth of her first child. And I thought of her year to come: the child learning to walk and talk--and she wanting to tell her mother all about it, to share the joys and ask for advice. In other words, I felt a real kinship for my friend, for what she was about to experience. For I, too, lost my mother in my early thirties. I, too, am a child of an older mother.

Losing one's parents in young adulthood is a very private loss, not much bothered about by society. And perhaps in the scale of things difficult it should not be ranked too high. But it remains a loss, nevertheless. As Christians, do we have permission to discuss this subject? Must it remain the unmentionable downside of later motherhood?

The Bible tells of two women who gave birth late in life, Sarah and Elizabeth. Sarah was in her nineties when Isaac was born and the gospel of Luke states that Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist, was "well along in years" when the angel announced his coming. But even though their pregnancies were miraculous events, the natural consequences of late motherhood are played out in the lives of their children. The Bible speaks of Isaac's need for comfort after the death of his mother (Genesis 24:67). And John the Baptist is presented to us as a haunting, solitary figure crying out from the wilderness. We do not know when Zechariah and Elizabeth died, but we are given the impression of John's being without immediate and supportive kin as he begins his ministry.

I am happy for women who now wish to bear children later in life, that medical science gives them encouragement and a reasonable hope of good health for themselves and their children. From my experiences as a child of older parents, I can say that the childhood they will provide will be stable and happy.

That is not to say that there will not be trade-offs. My brother, who is just two years older than I, remarked not long ago that he wished our dad had played ball with him as other fathers had done. At first it didn't occur to either of us that age might have had something to do with that because neither of us thought of ourselves as "children of older parents." But the fact is, when my brother was ready for backyard baseball, my father was in his fifties. The stress of providing for a family in hard times had left Dad with little energy for his much loved sports of youth. But the no baseball complaint was not a serious one. Just a minor regret. And besides, I can remember my father standing and watching us play, pleasure beaming from his face--and isn't that almost as good?

I have another brother, nine years older. Born when my parents were newly married, he was their first, and for seven years, their only child. He was raised with the energy and high hopes that come with new ventures. I, on the other hand, was nurtured by mellowed parents. By the time I was born, Mother had experienced and recovered from a protracted illness and my father had seen his career plans flatten. Our memories of childhood are markedly different--but neither of us would trade our positions.

As Christians, we acknowledge that every child is a gift of God, conceived according to his will--and timing. I think of the mother and daughter I met some years ago at a nearby church. The mother was sixty-five on her daughter's fifteenth birthday. Virtually a miracle child, the daughter had been conceived without medical intervention after thirty years of childless marriage, when the mother was fifty. A more joyous and vibrant mother/daughter duo I have never met. This silver haired woman and her now retired husband lived for their daughter. Because they had time, they were the ones who assumed sponsorship of the church youth group. Their delight in their daughter overflowed beyond her to all the young people under their supervision and the entire church family was enriched by their wonder at being parents at such a late age.

But for the majority of couples, the timing of a child's birth is not taken so majestically out of their control. It means conscious decision making. Modern knowledge of human reproduction gives many couples the ability to initiate, prevent or space pregnancies with almost scientific accuracy, a degree of control that in some circumstances can be troubling. Children? Yes. But a child now? What is God's plan for my life--for the child's life? Sometimes we would almost prefer the olden days when such momentous decisions seemed entirely in God's hands.

We have Psalm 139 to remind us of the somber choices, and yet there is comfort in it for parents. "In your book they all were written--the days fashioned for me--when as yet there were none of them." As long as we are in a sexual relationship, we are stewards of God's gift of life and cannot be absolved of accountability; nevertheless, we have God's promise of his absolute providence even in the matter of conception.

But we stray. Let's return to the child's point of view. While the thought never even entered my head, many young children of older parents worry about death. One friend, whose father was in his fifties when she was born, confided to me that she worried constantly as a child that her father would die. Her fears proved unnecessary because he was blessed with long life and lived to see each of his daughters marry, missing only the birth of his last grandchild.

One of the reasons that I did not worry was that we came from a family of women who lived long and vigorous lives. Having children late in life was natural for them, and my mother gloried in her role as mother. I remember as a teenager observing my 93 year old grandmother at family worship following my grandfather's funeral. My family was the first to be leaving for home, our car was packed and ready to go. The extended family sat around the dining room while Grandmother, erect and in a clear voice, read the 90th Psalm, those beloved words celebrating God's sovereignty over our days and accomplishments. Sometime earlier in the day she had taken me aside privately so that she could demonstrate to me her ability to kick as high as her head. She was not showing off. She had noticed my poor posture and wanted to encourage me to maintain good muscle tone.

For me, the issue of older mothers is not the quality of the childhood, but the almost certain to be abbreviated time permitted to the parent/child relationship. Especially at risk are those wonderful years when parents and children enjoy each other as adults.

I live in Pittsburgh, a family town. No young mother would dream of going shopping without her mother. At malls these excursions are a common sight--at least to my hungry eyes. They form compact little self-absorbed groups. The young mother comes first pushing a stroller that is empty of child but laden with coats and purchases. She is trailed by her mother holding the infant. The child is garbed in the latest fashion. Later on, we see them again. This time the older woman is sitting on a bench, her daughter off on a final errand. She is holding the baby who is gazing dreamily off into the bright lights of the mall. Grandmother appears to be resting but is, in fact, turning the child to his best advantage and showing him off to whoever will look.

Perhaps I notice these scenes because that is the point at which I lost my mother. When my second child was born Mother came and stayed until I was able to manage on my own. The day before she left we ventured to the mall. I had an errand, but the errand was just an excuse for an outing. "People at the next table couldn't keep their eyes off the children," Mother said with great satisfaction after lunch.

Mother flew home, and within weeks came a perplexing illness and worried phone calls. Emotional support from a wiser woman and companionship that I had always taken for granted gradually ceased, and I grew into the role of caretaker. In just a few years, my third child played quietly with his matchbox cars on the carpet in front of my mother's casket, and I was motherless at thirty-three.

Maintaining good health had always been a battle for my mother, but her death had never crossed my mind. I had always pictured Mother ending her days, a spry and cheerful ninety-year-old, in a rocking chair in my kitchen mending socks between naps. I would be in my fifties, tending her, and writing letters to my grown children. Songs she had sung to me, she would have sung to my children.

But I am not bereft. Next week my youthful in-laws will fly into town. Good things happen when they are around. Sometime during their visit, my husband, his dad and at least one of our boys will take to the ski slopes. Mom and me? We'll slip away, shop, lunch and visit.

Occasionally, I wear my mother's watch. It is not particularly attractive and has a maddening need to be wound every sixteen hours. But it was a gift from my father to my mother on the day I was born. Time. If I had been born when my mother was nineteen instead of when she was thirty-nine, we would have had twenty more years together. But who is to say that if I had been born twenty years earlier I would have been me?

So in the end, I offer no real complaint. For I must admit that I have no need of anything more from my mother than what she gave me. Although too brief for my wishes, our relationship was exceedingly sweet and satisfying. "Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance." (Psalm 16:5-6) I could not have said it better myself.