Did you hear it a few months ago, the collective BOOM BOOM BOOM of a million ancient ovaries throbbing at the announcement of Halle Berry’s baby being born? Ms. Berry was 47.
Surely you couldn’t miss the universal advanced-maternal-aged GASP when 49 year-old Laura Linney gave birth to her one and only? Since we’ve all given up smoking by now it was very, very loud.
I didn’t even know about Cheryl Tiegs:
“Kelly Preston had her third child in 2012, age 48. Susan Sarandon had a baby at 46, and Beverly D’Angelo had twins (with 65yo Al Pacino) at 49. Holly Hunter also gave birth to twins at the age of 47. Geena Davis had her twins at 48, Jane Seymour had twins at 45, Marcia Gay Harden and Desperate Housewives’ Marcia Cross both had twins at 45 and Cheryl Tiegs had twins at 52.” – Huffington Post
That article (and anyone who’s tried to have a baby) assumes these babies were achieved via donor eggs, but I don’t care about that because BABIES.
How do you stop wanting a baby? Shouldn’t biology take care of that? Shit. There goes my feminism.
I met a three-week-old baby at a toy store and started crying. A fellow preschool parent showed me a picture of his one-month-old daughter and I started crying. There are two tables of families of three in this cafe so now I’m enjoying tear-drop steel-cut oatmeal.
Despite convinced Farrah Star is trying to kill me (as I was with Arlo), I would do it again in a heartbeat. Is it the success after trying so long to get Arlo and Farrah Star that drives me? Success breeds success, right? Or is it my body that tells me every single month, “There’s still a chance! Fool! What are you waiting for?”? I bleed therefore I am. There are two parents in our baby-making enterprise however, and the silent partner is finished, or perhaps better stated: complete. I understand his reasons for pulling his plug but how do I stem my flow of desire? I will soon be 44 and I will never take another fertility drug so the chances of me becoming and sustaining a healthy pregnancy are less than 5%. But still . . . maybe . . . and there in the headlines: possibility.
I donated all my maternity clothes in a show of solidarity towards my husband. I don’t think he noticed but at least he’ll never catch me in the closet smelling them, smiling at the memory of the body they used to decorate.
It would be timely to end this post with a link to that “Let It Go” song but instead I’m going to bring back my maternity clothes if only in this virtual reality. And if you could tell me how you got over your babylust, please add it in the comments and I’d be much obliged, in solidarity. And just like that I’m a feminist again.