Primigravida

Ann LoLordo, Primigravida’s Mamma of the Month

When I told my friends that I was pregnant, the supportive chums (whose kids were all in college) chorused, “It’ll keep you young.” My son Ethan is now eight years old, and at 50-something, I’ve ice-skated, driven go-carts and watched more 3-D movies in recent years than I had in the previous 15. It’s safe to say that I would never have taken that harrowing spin around the go-cart track last fall — not once but twice — except at the urging of my son: “Go mom, go!”

The fun factor has increased exponentially since Ethan’s arrival on the planet — and that’s from a woman for whom fun was never just a three-letter word. That said, I know my limits and have pushed myself to stay fit, enrolling in exercise and strength training classes so that my body works for me and not against me as Ethan grows up.

But as an older mom of a clever and articulate 8-year-old, I have found that I often talk to my son as though he is a lot older than his years, as though he is a 16-year-old masquerading as a second grader. After a particular row about cleaning up his toys, I expect him to behave like a teenager – and a responsible, mature one at that. I want him to be more responsive, to listen more, to do what I ask without an argument. And when he doesn’t, that’s when I feel my age acutely. I’m not patient enough? I don’t like being challenged by an 8-year-old? I’m not used to having my request ignored so blithely?

I have been known to say to my friends with the 20-something kids, “Whatever happened to, ‘Because I said so?’” Read more…

Does she or doesn’t she? Or, how I got here.

Oh, go ahead, just ask already.

When you give birth at 40 for the first time, the question on many people’s minds is whether you got pregnant with the help of fertility treatments.

Those who don’t know me often assume I’d been trying for ages, because they think having a first baby at 40 is “late.” And those who do know we got married just two years ago might wonder as well.

So, just to put my own experience out there, because I don’t see the point in a blog that doesn’t, I suppose you can say I got lucky – but it wasn’t quite as easy as that. We returned from a long weekend on our first anniversary and learned I was pregnant – exactly one year after we’d begun trying to conceive.

Six months after trying to get pregnant, I hit 39 and marched myself into a fertility clinic for the usual workup: blood tests, the monitoring of my ovulation and hormone levels, a sperm count for my husband. Six months isn’t long, but I was impatient – and worried.

Everything looked fine, but I still wasn’t getting pregnant, and the ticking of my biological clock was deafening. “You’d better hurry up,” one of my aunties said a month after the wedding, “you don’t have much time.” (Hey, thanks, I didn’t realize!) I saw a naturopath to assess my diet. I gave up most caffeine. And I tolerated a lot of unsolicited advice.

“Don’t eat garlic.” “Stay away from ginger.” “Avoid all dairy products based on cow’s milk.” “Give up sugar and white flour.” “Just don’t think about it.” “Don’t stress.” The list was endless, and occasionally, ridiculous. Read more…